


A Time for Wolves

by theusurpersdog



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Multi, an ensemble piece if you will, everyone else also shows up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2020-04-05 09:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 58,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19035898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theusurpersdog/pseuds/theusurpersdog
Summary: The Starks unite against their enemies. Prophecies are fulfilled, promises kept and broken. Westeros is bathed in blood by its saviour. A character-centric rewrite of season 8.





	1. DAENERYS I

**Author's Note:**

> Basically I thought it would be fun to re-write s8 of Game of Thrones, using all the same plot points. To make the point that all the characters ended where they should, it was just written terribly. Essentially I'm taking the same plot and reworking the characters. Jonsa is also more canon in my version because it should have been anyway. Other ships like Gendrya and Jonerys are present but don't exactly end happy so.  
> PS the first chapter is from Dany's point of view, but the second chapter is from Sansa's and there will be Jonsa content so don't worry.

“I told you, the North doesn’t much trust outsiders,” Jon Snow said nervously.

Indeed, Jon had warned her, suggesting it may be better if she and him arrived ahead of the Dothraki and Unsullied. “You don’t want to scare them,” he had said. But Daenerys found no reason for them to be afraid; after all, the Dothraki and Unsullied were riding North to save them. It should be a comforting sight to see so many soldiers riding to their aid. 

“It doesn’t matter that I’m riding with you?” She asked him playfully.

But he did not seem amused. “Just be careful what you say, I don’t want to upset them.”

“Why should they be upset? I am their rightful Queen, and I’m coming to save them.” Daenerys said

“They’re a stubborn people, and have never been fond of kneeling. Or Targaryens.” Jon seemed to know she wouldn’t like his answer. Looking out on hundreds of distrusting Northern faces, Daenerys suddenly felt out of place. She knew they had never loved her family, and certainly not her father, but she was different. I am their savior, she thought, hopefully they’ll come to understand. But for the first time, she wasn’t sure of herself. 

As if sensing her discomfort, Drogon came flying overhead with a fantastic roar. Even on their trip up North, he had grown so much. To watch him fly now was truly breathtaking. Daenerys liked to imagine he resembled Balerion the Black Dread when Aegon had brought him to Westeros some 300 years ago. The people were less amazed by him though; many went running and screaming in all directions. But Daenerys could not bring herself to care, Drogon was too glorious a sight to let a few Northerners ruin it. 

As Rhaegal swooped down beside his brother, Daenerys suddenly felt a pain in her chest. Once there would have been three, where now there is only two, she thought. It had only been 3 moon turns since Viserion had fallen beyond the wall. When she closed her eyes, Daenerys could still see the flames bursting from his chest, mixing with blood as he crashed into the ice. Rhaegal’s awful scream still echoed in her ears, the way the ground had shook with the force of Viserion’s fall. Steeling herself, she put her heels into her horse and rode on. She had flown north to save Jon that day, to save the King in the North. Looking over at him eased her concerns. I may not have the people, but I have their king, she thought.

Riding through the gates of Winterfell, Daenerys saw a huge gathering in the courtyard. Standing in front of the people was a tall red-haired girl she assumed was Jon’s sister Sansa, and beside her a boy in a strange chair she knew could only be Brandon Stark, Jon’s little brother and rightful heir to Winterfell and the North. She still didn’t understand how Jon could be King when his true born siblings lived in Winterfell, but she knew Jon trusted them fully. 

Daenerys looked to her left to say something to Jon, but he had already sent his horse into a gallop, a look of sheer joy on his face. “Bran!” he called out, leaping off his horse and heading straight towards his little brother. When he reached Bran, Jon wrapped him in a tight embrace. “I haven’t seen you in years, and now you’re almost a man!” His voice told Dany he was close to tears.

“Not quite.” His brother’s voice sounded almost lifeless, but he smiled up at Jon with warmth.

Standing to Bran’s right, Sansa looked over at her brothers and smiled. Jon looked over at her and smiled in return, going to give her a hug as well. But as she wrapped her arms around him, Sansa’s eyes met with Dany’s, and it almost looked like jealousy. Jon had warned her that Sansa wouldn’t take kindly to the North losing independence, especially not to a Targaryen. “Is Arya here?” Jon asked his sister.

“She went to Winter’s Town to see you arrive; I don’t think she could wait to see you here properly.” Jon smiled, and Daenerys could tell he loved is little sister very much. Sansa was still looking at Dany though, waiting for Jon to address her. 

Jon seemed to notice Sansa’s gaze and turned back to look at Daenerys. “Queen Daenerys Targaryen, this is my sister Sansa, the Lady of Winterfell and heir to the North.” 

Dany had hung back from Jon’s family, standing with Ser Jorah beside her, but now she stepped forward for introductions. “Lady Sansa, the North is as beautiful as your brother claimed, as are you. Thank you for opening Winterfell up to me and my armies.”

Sansa looked at her silently for half a beat too long, then said “Winterfell is yours, your grace.” Her tone was very kind, but held no affection.

“We don’t have time for introductions, the White Walkers are coming.” Bran said, catching everyone’s attention. Then he looked at Daenerys and said “The Night King has broken through the Wall, with the help of your dragon.”

Daenerys suddenly felt as if she might throw up. “Viserion? How?” 

“He raised your dragon from the dead and now flies south with the biggest army Westeros has ever seen, and a dragon to lead them.” Bran’s voice lacked the inflection of most men, yet something in his dry tone sat wrong with Daenerys. But she could not focus on his words, her mind still reeling from the revelation that Viserion was a weapon of the Night King now. My child, she thought, how am I to face him like that? 

She felt tears well in her eyes, and tried to push them back. “Perhaps we can reconvene later, to discuss our plan.” Dany said. 

Jon noticed her distress and spoke up. “I’ll show Queen Daenerys to her chambers, and her men can set up their quarters within the walls. Once they are comfortable, we can gather in the Great Hall.” He gave her a sad look, and reached out his hand for hers. 

Jon led her up the battlements and towards the rooms of Winterfell. “You’ll be staying here,” He said, leading her into a large room “they’re the King’s Chambers, but I imagine they won’t mind a Queen.” 

He went to leave the room. “Jon?” she called “Will you sit with me for a moment?” The news of Viserion’s resurrection still had her feeling sick to her stomach, and she knew Jon would understand. After Viserion died, he had been there to comfort her. That was the day he made her his Queen, and called her Dany too.

He hesitated for a moment, looking at the door then back at her, then moved to sit with her on the bed. “I’m sorry about your dragon,” he said “I know you saw him as a child.”

For a moment the two just sat there next to each other. Daenerys didn’t know what to say, and instead decided to cry. “I should be going, I need to talk to my men and see my family.” Jon said awkwardly. 

“Of course,” Dany gathered herself “I will see you before the Great Hall?”

“I will try, my Queen.” He said almost distantly, and left the room.

Alone in her chambers, Daenerys let herself cry for Viserion fully. The thought of him as a weapon of the Night King terrified her; she had spent enough time on the back of Drogon to know how powerful a dragon was, and now her own would be turned against her. She had known him since he was born in Drogo’s funeral pyre, and so had Drogon. Now the two of them would have to kill him. 

Suddenly her chambers felt cold and lonely. Thousands of people gathered outside in the courtyard and the many Halls, but Daenerys could not feel anything but alone.


	2. SANSA I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is excited to see Jon again, but less so to see the Queen and her Hand.

Seated at the front of Winterfell’s Great Hall, Sansa looked out on a hundred angry faces. She knew the North was loyal to Jon, and to all the Starks, but she also knew they needed to air their concerns. The Stark tradition of giving their people, high and lowborn alike, a seat at their table fostered a sense of family and loyalty between them and their men, but it also led the Lords and Ladies to feel more comfortable voicing their concerns, which oft times sounded like complaints.

Sansa could not say she disagreed with them, either. She had missed Jon in the months he was away, but the letters he sent gave her no comfort. They were short and without feeling, and often came with bad news. _Dark wings, dark words_ , Sansa thought.

Seeing him in Winterfell’s courtyard still made her feel dizzy, though. He was wearing the cloak she had stitched him when they had ridden south from Castle Black, headed toward Winterfell. Seeing him on his horse reminded her of the day he had left to go to Dragonstone. Sansa had almost pleaded with him in the Great Hall not to go that day, but he eased her hurt by trusting her with the North while he was away. So much time had passed since a man trusted Sansa to be more than just a stupid little girl, and Jon’s gesture warmed her heart.

The next day, before he rode out with his men, Jon came to say a proper goodbye. “I know you don’t agree with my leaving, but I’m asking you to try and understand.” He had said, almost pleading. Jon had never felt comfortable as King in the North, perhaps because he felt he had stolen something from her, and he took criticism deeply.

“I’ll do my best to rule the North in your name.” She said, trying to sound comforting, but in truth she was scared. Her and Jon had not been apart since she had ridden through the gates of Castle Black and saw him standing on the battlements. Arya and Bran were still lost somewhere, yet to come home. Without Jon, she would be alone again.

“I can’t bring Ghost down south with me, would you mind if I left him here with you?” Jon asked. The direwolf was standing next to Jon, and his ears perked at the sound of his name. “You know I love him, of course he can stay!” She was still sad about Jon leaving, but having Ghost there to comfort her made his departure seem less daunting. She had lost her own direwolf years before, and something was strangely comforting about Jon’s white one.

Sansa and Ghost had gone to the courtyard to wave him goodbye, unsure when or if he would return. But that night when she fell asleep with Ghost curled up beside her, she had dreamt of Jon. He was on his way to a ship at White Harbor, and his thoughts seemed dark and troubled. When she woke, Sansa knew it had only been a dream, but it seemed quite real to her.

The memory threatened to distract Sansa from the meeting at hand, and she knew she must put on her Lady’s face. Jon was seated to her left, and Daenerys in the seat next to him. Once all of their bannermen took their seats in the Hall, Sansa called for their attention. “As you all know, I gathered you here because the Wall has fallen.” Sansa decided it was best not to mention that Daenerys Targaryen’s dragon had blown a hole in it. “The castles north of Winterfell are no longer safe, as the Army of the Dead marches South. Winterfell is the strongest keep in the North, and the walls will be reinforced by dragonglass from Queen Daenerys’ seat, Dragonstone. Thank you, your grace.” _Courtesy is a lady’s armor_ , she reminded herself.

“Your welcome, Lady Sansa.” Daenerys said, not unpolite.

“Winterfell has also been gathering food from throughout the North in preparation for winter. Thank you, everyone, for your aid in feeding the North.” Sansa could not forget to thank the Lords and Ladies who had been so accommodating in preparing for the Long Night. “Queen Daenerys, Jon sent word you had taken Highgarden from Cersei Lannister, was any food brought with your armies North?”

The Queen seemed surprised by Sansa’s question. “Cersei Lannister had taken much of the gold from Highgarden before our armies met, and most of the grain was lost in the ensuing battle.” Daenerys looked almost abashed.

The Great Hall burst into whispers of discontent at the Queen’s answer. _Daenerys has brought thousands of hungry soldiers_ , Sansa thought, _and nothing to feed them_. Food was scarce enough before Daenerys arrived; Northerners had been skipping meals to provide enough food should everyone need to retreat to Winterfell, and now it still wouldn’t be enough if the winter was hard. When Sansa had heard Daenerys’ army had gone south into the Reach, she had hoped they would bring more than enough food to feed themselves and maybe lend a hand to the North. Highgarden was the most bountiful stronghold in Westeros, and Sansa struggled to see how all of its resources could be destroyed in a single battle; but that was a question for another time. Sansa’s own concerns were growing, and she didn’t want the bannerman more upset than they already were.

She looked over at Jon, whose face seemed troubled. Their eyes met for half a second, and he seemed to understand. “Maester Wolkin, have ravens been sent to the men of the Night’s Watch yet?” he said, to regain control of the room.

“Many men were lost when the Wall collapsed. The remaining men are headed towards Winterfell as we speak.”

“Thank you, maester.” Jon said

“Anything to aid Winterfell, Your Grace.”

“Your Grace? But he’s not anymore, is he?” Lady Mormont’s young voice carried through the length of the Hall. “He’s bent the North away, and what is he now?” Her age made Lady Mormont bold enough to say what any other Lord or Lady would be too afraid to speak.

“Queen Daenerys has given Jon the title Warden of the North, and acknowledged House Stark and Winterfell as his seat.” Sansa replied quickly. In truth, she had no idea what Jon was anymore; but saying it publicly, for all the Lords and Ladies of the North to hear, forced Daenerys to agree.

“I’m sorry if you feel I’ve betrayed you,” Jon stood, “but Queen Daenerys has brought thousands of Dothraki, Unsullied, and two dragons to our aid. I would rather bend the knee to save my kingdom, than have my people die with me as their King.” Something in Jon’s voice did not sound right. Sansa looked over to Daenerys, and saw her mood had changed as well; where before she was playing at courtesies, now she seemed only upset.

Lady Mormont did not seem entirely pleased with Jon’s answer, but sat down all the same. “Does anyone have any pressing matters before we retire?” Sansa asked, trying to defuse the tension.

“Yes, my Lady,” Ned Umber, no older than two-and-ten, stood up. “Some of my people were unable to ride to Winterfell with me from Last Hearth. We only had so many horses and wagons, and the elderly and children were unable to make the journey without them. I had hoped you would be so kind as to lend House Umber a hand in bringing our people south, Lady Sansa.” As soon as he said the words, he looked nervous. “And Lord Jon.” Further realizing his mistake, he finally said “And Queen Daenerys.” Then quickly took his seat.

Sansa looked over at Jon, leaving the decision to him. “We can spare as many wagons as you need. The White Walkers are marching south, though, and your party will be unable to defend yourselves. Queen Daenerys, are any Dothraki or Unsullied able to escort the Umber men to Last Hearth?”

Daenerys paused for a moment. “I would offer to fly Drogon over your party as a defense, but I fear meeting the Night King unawares. Last time he was able to take down one of my dragons, and I don’t want to make the same mistake twice. A group of my Unsullied will accompany you North.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Ned Umber said timidly.

With that, the meeting was concluded and the bannerman began to filter out of the Great Hall. Daenerys left first, to see to the Unsullied, and soon only Jon and Sansa remained with a few of their men. “May we speak in private?” She asked him.

“I’m sorry Sansa, but not now.” What was that look on his face, shame?

“Are you okay?” She asked him, concerned.

“My men no longer respect me, and I’ve lost my crown.” He said to the ground, and quickly left the room. Sansa would have followed him, but she knew he needed time by himself in the Godswood. Being away from the North for so long must have upset him, and he needed time to sit where their father once had after he made a hard choice.

Leaving the Great Hall, Sansa saw Lord Tyrion waiting to speak with her on the battlements. Seeing him properly for the first time in years made her throat tighten, but she smiled and greeted him all the same.

“Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell. Has a nice ring to it.” Tyrion said in return.

_Much better than Sansa Lannister_ , she thought, but instead said “Hand of the Queen is not bad either, though she’s not the monarch I would have guessed for you.” Though she tried to hide it, her voice gave away some of her misgivings.

“Queen Daenerys is unlike anyone else I’ve ever met. If you give her a chance, you’ll come to see it too.” Tyrion replied.

“I’ve given her Winterfell and all the food in the North, my kindness is not lacking.”

“I never said it was, my Lady, you were always good at hiding your true feelings.” His voice sounded almost spiteful. _He cannot truly begrudge my leaving him, can he?_   “Though it has been years since we last spoke,” Tyrion continued, “the last time I saw you was Joffrey’s wedding. . .”

“A miserable affair.” Sansa said, the memory of Joffrey’s face turning purple as he gasped for air, digging his nails so hard into his own throat he left tracks of blood down his chest, was still fresh in her mind. She had wished for his death a hundred times over, but as he died, he looked so little her monster, and so much a little boy. She shuddered.

“It had its moments.” Tyrion smiled, as if remembering his death fondly.

“My apologies for leaving as I did.” Sansa lied.

“That _was_ unkind of you, though I suppose it was the logical choice.”

“I suppose it was. And the gods looked down on you kindly as well.”

“I’m not sure the gods had anything to do with my escape. In fact, I think they had much more to do with my imprisonment.” Tyrion quipped.

“I believe Cersei was to blame for that.” Sansa said. “Is it true, you expect her armies to join us any day now?”

“I know it sounds hard to believe, but even my sister understands there’s no point fighting if we’ll all be dead anyway.”

That was not true of the Cersei Sansa had come to know in King’s Landing. “Has anyone seen her men marching North? Is there any proof she won’t abandon our cause?”

“Cersei’s men were seen marching North from King's Landing, but Daenerys' forces quickly outpaced them.”

“So, there’s no reason to believe they are coming?” Sansa was in disbelief no one else had come to question Cersei’s allegiance.

“But there is also no reason to assume she isn’t.” Tyrion sounded defensive.

_Except for my father’s head on a spike, and my mother and brother dead at a wedding_ , she thought. “Forgive me if I have a hard time trusting your sister, Lord Tyrion, but she rarely showed me kindness.”

“She never showed me much either, but she has something to fight for now.” Tyrion seemed to earnestly believe in his sister, or perhaps in his own cleverness. “Though it seems most of the people who never showed you kindness are dead already.”

Tyrion’s small kindnesses meant less to Sansa, now that she saw him for what he was. “Thank you, Lord Tyrion. Taking Winterfell back from the Boltons was not easy.” Sansa wondered if Tyrion remembered his own hand in taking Winterfell from her family; she certainly had not forgotten. “I suppose we’ll be speaking shortly, but I have business to attend to regarding the food we’ll be using to feed Queen Daenerys' forces.” With that, Sansa left Tyrion by himself on the battlements.

Alone in her solar, Sansa looked over letters that had come in the previous day. Ser Robin in the Vale repledging his forces to the North in their time of need, Edmure Tully sending word that he had reclaimed Riverrun for House Tully but could not spare men to march North, though looked forward to meeting his niece when the warring was done. Several Lords of the Stormlands had also sent polite letters denying aid to Winterfell, though Selwyn Tarth sought news of his daughter and seemed apologetic that he had no men to send North; apparently the Dornish had been giving the Stormlands some trouble. House Caron had retreated from the marshes and now held Storm’s End, in the wake of Stannis’ failed campaign in the North.

As Sansa began writing Lord Tarth, to assure him Brienne was her closest companion, she heard the familiar patter of heavy paws as Ghost pushed open the door and walked over to her. She bent down to grab his head and kiss his nose, and Ghost jumped his two front paws onto her lap, what he always did when he wanted to be pet. “I assumed you would be with Jon.”

Sansa always spoke to him as if he understood, and most times it seemed he could. Ghost licked her once more on the face and fell asleep across her feet. “I wish Jon were as eager to see me as you, Ghost.” At that, he let out a soft whimper.


	3. ARYA I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya finally sees Jon for the first time in years, and tries to talk some sense into him

She found him kneeling before the Godswood. It had been nearly seven years since she had seen him last, and Arya suddenly didn’t know what to say. _The last time he saw me, I was a child. Before, before. . ._ She didn’t let herself finish the thought. The last time she had seen him, she hadn’t killed anyone, had never prayed to the god of death and answered her own prayer. But she told herself that Jon wouldn’t care, that he would simply muss her hair and call her “little sister”.

Yet she couldn’t think of what to say to him, and instead watched him as he prayed. All the things she wanted to say all seemed so insignificant. How does one say _“I’ve missed you more than anything in the world”_?

Finally, she worked up the courage and simply said, “Jon!”

Jon jumped to his feet, startled, and spun around. “Arya?” He looked at her for a moment, as if unsure who she was. Then, with more confidence, he smiled and said “little sister!”

Before she knew what she was doing, she was racing through the snow toward him. Just as she had when she was a little girl, she jumped into his arms and wrapped herself tight around him. Winterfell and Bran and Sansa, they were all home to her too, but ever since he left for the Wall, she had wanted to hug him again.

When he finally put her down, Jon said “Where have you been?”

She knew he only meant today, but she thought of all the places she had gone trying to come home. “Too many places that weren’t here.” She said, and felt tears welling in her eyes.

“But you still have it? Needle?” Jon asked, noticing the sword on her belt.

“I could never leave it behind.” She had tried, once, when she was _no one_ in Braavos.

“What have you been doing all these years? I thought. . .I heard you had died. . .”

“I thought that was you.” When Sansa had told her of Jon’s death, she almost couldn’t believe it. But then she remembered Lord Beric Dondarrion, and when she had seen him come back to life after the Hound nearly split him in two. “What was it like? Did you see them? Father and mother and Robb?” She knew his answer would be no, but still she hoped for anything of the family she had lost.

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t see anything. It’s strange, but I don’t think I was ever really gone. When they had. . .stabbed me. . .when I was. . .dying. . .I saw Ghost, but I don’t remember anything else.” The memory seemed to hurt him.

“I missed you so much. I tried to come and see you at the Wall, but. . .” So many things had happened after her father died, all taking her further from where she belonged.

“I missed you too, little sister.” He tossed her hair again.

After that, they talked for what seemed like hours. She told him how Yoren had helped her escape King’s Landing, and how she made everyone think she was the boy Arry. How she had met Tywin Lannister and almost killed him, and how she had traveled with the Hound, and how that led her to Braavos. She was scared Jon would be mad when she told him the things she had done, but instead he said “I’m just glad you came home.” And hugged her again.

When she noticed the wolf’s head pommel of his sword, Jon showed her his Valyrian steel. “It used to be a bear for Jeor Mormont, but he gave it to me before we went ranging. Now it looks like Ghost.” Jon’s direwolf reminded her of her own, Nymeria. Arya had seen her before she came back to Winterfell. At first, she thought she didn’t deserve a wolf anymore, the symbol of her family, but being back in Winterfell with Sansa and Bran made her miss Nymeria. She’d dreamt of her again the night before, for the first time in a long time. In her dream, Nymeria was racing through the trees, the falling snow cold on her fur. Behind her, a hundred wolves tried to keep up with her furious pace; Arya knew she was chasing something, and getting close too. The wolves of her pack began to howl, but the sounds of people outside her door had woken her up before Nymeria caught her prey.

As Jon told her about his life, and how him and Sansa had retaken Winterfell and the North together, Arya couldn’t hold her tongue any longer. “But then you bent the knee.” Arya hadn’t met Jon’s Queen yet, but she distrusted anyone who wanted to take the North away from them again.

“It’s not as simple as that, Arya, _I had to_. She has two dragons, and the biggest army Westeros has ever seen. You have to trust me; I wouldn’t have given the North away for no reason.” Jon’s shoulders seemed to fall as he talked about his crown.

“You’re a Stark. I know you think you’re not, but you’ve always been my brother. I know you did the right thing.” The words seemed to ease some of his distress. “But the North isn’t going to kneel again, and they want their King back.”

“Aye. You missed our meeting in the Great Hall; I don’t think they’d want me as their King, even if I went back on my word to Daenerys.”

“They’re angry, they feel like you abandoned them.”

“But I’m trying to save them! I didn’t have a choice!” Jon said

“And eventually they’ll see that, but for now they need time. Sansa does too.”

“The way she looked at me, like I’d betrayed her. . .” Jon’s cheeks flushed. “Can you talk to her for me? Make her see my hands were tied?”

“I think she’d be happier if she heard it from you.” Since Arya had returned to Winterfell, her and Sansa were making up for their time apart. When they realized, almost immediately, that Lord Baelish was playing them against each other, they had gone to Bran for help. Reliving their father’s death, through Bran’s visions that Lord Baelish had betrayed him, only brought them closer together. They had only been children before; all the fights they had seemed so small in light of the years apart.

One thing Arya knew about her sister now, was how important Jon was to her. In Arya’s memory, the two had always been distant; but now Sansa talked about him constantly. She had told Arya of how Jon had been the only place for her to go after Ramsay, and how they had reclaimed Winterfell together. Arya also knew that trust was hard for Sansa. No matter how hard her sister tried to hide her scars, Arya could see underneath the brave face; Sansa tried her hardest to be who she was before, but sometimes it hurt too much. Her and Sansa had that in common now.

“I don’t think she wants to see me.” Jon looked solemn.

“Trust me, Jon. Whatever you say, it needs to come straight from you.”

Jon nodded his head in a begrudging show of agreement.

“Jon Snow!” An accented voice called out from behind her. What appeared to be an Unsullied officer was standing on the edge of the Godswood, as if nervous to enter.

“Greyworm, is something wrong?” Jon seemed familiar with the man.

“Queen Daenerys would like to speak with you.” Said Greyworm.

“Tell the Queen I will meet her in the courtyard.”

Greyworm nodded and left toward the Queen’s chambers.

“It’s okay Jon, go to the Queen.” Arya said.

Jon hesitated another moment. “I have to talk to Daenerys now, but I want to see you and Bran again. It’s been so long since we were all together. . .”

“I love you too, big brother.” Arya hugged him once more before he left.

As Arya made her way through Winterfell, it struck her as bittersweet, and not for the first time. Winterfell was home to her; she knew all of its keeps and courtyards, the forge and the stables, the passageways and halls. But all the people that used to fill them were gone now; Ser Rodrik and Old Nan, Maester Luwin and Hodor, and Mikken who had made Needle for her years before. They had all died when Theon turned cloak and took the castle; she had thought Bran and Rickon were dead then too. Coming home to see Bran alive was a gift from the Old Gods, but seeing Rickon in the crypts broke her heart. _He had only been a boy when I left for King’s Landing; he had only been a boy when he died_. Arya pushed the sad thoughts from her mind; she was going to see an old friend.

As she walked into the forge, Arya heard a familiar growl. “You know who makes weapons for the Wildlings? Cripples and cocksuckers. What does that make you?”

“Leave him be!” Arya said sternly as she saw the Hound was speaking to Gendry.

“I should’ve known you’d be here. Wasn’t enough you’d left me for dead, have you come to rob me again?”

She hadn’t seen him in years, but something about the way the Hound snarled instead of spoke made Arya feel like a child again. “I wouldn’t have robbed you if you didn’t take me hostage.” She said, trying not to sound scared.

“You’re a cold little bitch, aren’t you?” With that, the Hound walked straight out of the forge.

“What a horse’s ass.” Gendry said when the Hound was no longer in earshot.

“Don’t let him get to you, he’s like that with everyone.” Arya said.

“He’s just a bitter old man anyway.” Gendry still had the same arrogant nonchalance of his younger years. His eyes had only gotten bluer, and his hair was pitch black.

“I didn’t expect you to be here.” Arya tried to sound calm. When she had seen Gendry riding in with Jon’s company, her heart flip flopped into her stomach. Besides Hot Pie, Gendry was the only true friend she’d had in Westeros after her father died. They had both been on the run together, chased by Cersei and Joffrey.

“Jon told me you’d be here.” Gendry smiled. “My Lady’s finally gotten her castle back.” He said with a laugh.

Arya pushed him on the shoulder. “I told you, I’m not a Lady.” It had been too long since she’d seen him.

“Maybe you’re not a Lady, but the Valyrian steel on your hip means you’re higher born than I am.”

“Want to see it?” She pulled out the dagger Bran had given her.

Gendry’s eyes lit up as he looked at the cool ripples left in the steel. “And what’s the handle made of? Some sort of bone?”

“Dragonbone.” Bran had told her the entire history of the dagger, from the time it was forged to the moment Littefinger had given it to him.

“I would kill to be able to make something like this.”

“You’re getting better.” Arya said, looking at some of the daggers he had around him. She remembered the bull’s head helm he made himself in King’s Landing. For a long time she didn’t even know his real name, just that he wouldn’t ever leave his helm behind; they’d all called him “The Bull”, partly for the helm and partly because he was strong and slow.

“Your brother and his new Queen have certainly given me plenty of practice.”

“Have you met her? The Dragon Queen?”

Gendry’s face suddenly lost all color. “N-no.” He seemed to stumble over the words. “It’s probably best I don’t.”

“Why? Have you heard something about her?”

“I don’t know much about her. I just meant. . .probably best a bastard doesn’t go around trying to meet with the Queen, is all.”

Gendry’s face said that wasn’t it at all, but Arya decided to let him keep whatever secret he was hiding. “I came here to ask you a favor.”

“I figured Lady Stark didn’t walk into forges just to distract the smith.” He said with a sly smile.

“My dagger can kill the wights, but I need something longer if I’m going to be useful against an army of them.”

“A sword?”

“I pictured it more like this.” She showed him a sketch Sansa had drawn for her, of a two-sided staff similar to the ones she had trained with in Braavos. “Do you think you can make it?”

“Anything for my Lady.”

“Your Lady is going to kick you in the shin if you keep calling her that.”

Gendry laughed. “I’ll make it soon as I can.”

Arya turned around to walk away. “Arya?” She turned back at Gendry. “It was nice to see you again”.

She spun to hide her face, as she could feel her cheeks blushing.


	4. JON I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow meets with Daenerys Targaryen, and questions his decisions.

Jon’s breakfast sat uneasily in his stomach as he walked toward the courtyard of Winterfell. Queen Daenerys Targaryen wanted to speak with him, and the tone of Greyworm’s voice had told him it was important. Jon had seen the look on her face after the meeting of Stark bannerman in the Great Hall; it was a look he had seen Daenerys wear before, on the beaches of Dragonstone when she took her dragon and turned the Lannister army to ash.

“You wanted to see me?” He caught Daenerys' attention as she stood talking to Ser Jorah Mormont.

“Yes, I. . . wanted to speak with you about certain matters.”

“I should be going, my Queen.” The knight seemed to understand Daenerys wanted privacy, and quickly excused himself.

“What’s this about?” Jon clenched and unclenched his right hand nervously.

“I just wanted to see you, to discuss what’s to be done with the northern lords.” Daenerys’ voice remained even, but something in her words made Jon uneasy.

“What’s to be done with them? They just need time, that’s all.”

“They didn’t seem like they wanted time earlier,” Daenerys said, “they were quick to make up their mind on me.”

“They’re a stubborn people.” _And don’t appreciate southern kings or queens trying to rule their castles_. “But remember what I told you, they’ll come to see you for what you are.”

“And your sister? How will the people come to respect me when their Lady doesn’t?”

Jon felt a gaping pit open in his stomach. “She’s doing her best. The people of the North trusted me to be their King, and I in turn trusted it to Sansa. While I was away on Dragonstone, she made sure they would have a place to stay and grain to eat for the winter. They trust her with their lives, just as they trusted our father. She’s protective of them.”

“And that means she can disrespect her Queen?” Daenerys’ voice was growing sharper.

“She didn’t disrespect you.” Jon was growing defensive. “But she has to represent her people, and make sure they feel heard. As long as you’re patient and answer their concerns, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I hope you’re right, Jon Snow.”

 _I hope so too, or else I’ve made a terrible mistake_. When Jon bent the knee, it had been after seeing all three of Daenerys’ dragons in full flight; seeing their power was beautiful and terrible. The idea that those dragons could ever be unleashed on the North was enough to make his stomach turn. T _orrhen Stark bent the knee to save his people, and he didn’t have an army of dead men marching on his castle. Is what I’ve done really so terrible?_

“Other than my stubborn people, have you liked what you’ve seen of the North?” Jon asked her.

“It is beautiful,” she answered, “but it’s cold and unyielding, too. It reminds me of the Red Waste I travelled in Essos.” That did not sound like a compliment to Jon.

“The cold has never bothered the Starks; my father always said the blood of the First Men flows through their veins.”

“The blood of Old Valyria flows through mine, and the fire is ours.”

Before Jon could answer, three of Daenerys’ bloodriders entered the courtyard, calling for the Queen’s attention. Jon could not understand the guttural sounds of Dothraki, but Daenerys’ face turned to worry.

“What is it?” He asked.

“My dragons, they’re hardly eating.”

Drogon and Rhaegal were kept a short ride from Winterfell, and Jon and Daenerys made the trip quickly. She had no interest in speaking as they rode, and seemed very concerned. Daenerys had told him after Viserion died that they were the only children she would ever have, and she treated them as such. Jon did not see what was childlike about her beasts, but the love she had for them could not be denied.

They dismounted their horses several feet from her dragons; while Dany’s khalasar had grown used to them, Jon’s horse wouldn’t go near Drogon or Rhaegal. Most animals seemed to shy away from them.

As Daenerys approached Drogon, Jon hung several feet back from her, waiting to see how the dragons reacted to him. He had touched Drogon once, on the shores of Dragonstone, but still he was afraid of them. He had heard that dragons were smarter than most animals, and bonded with their rider. Jon feared they would smell the truth of him, and burn him for it. But they always seemed strangely at peace in his company; perhaps because their mother loved him?

“What’s wrong with them?” Jon asked Daenerys, as she rested a hand on Drogon’s nose.

“They don’t like the North.” She said matter-of-fact.

“How do you know?” “I just do.” She replied, but Jon did not believe her. The look in her eyes gave the truth of it; her dragons did not like the North because _she_ didn’t like the North. Not for the first time, Jon felt his stomach turn.

“Will they be okay?” Jon was depending on having two dragons in the fight against the White Walkers.

“I think so. They’re still eating several sheep a day, and don’t seem sick. They’re just uncomfortable, but physically they seem to be normal.” Daenerys walked down Drogon’s long neck, petting his scales. “You can come closer, pet them if you like.”

Jon hesitated. “You’re sure they won’t hurt me?”

“They are their mother’s children, as long as I don’t wish to harm you, neither will my dragons. Come and see for yourself.”

Slowly, Jon began to approach the green one, Rhaegal. When Jon stood in front of him, the dragon lowered his head as if to be touched. Reaching out his hand, Jon placed it gently between the dragon’s nostrils. His nose was hot to the touch, almost uncomfortably so; but something about the scales felt nice against Jon’s hand, and when the dragon did not pull away Jon began to pet the sides of his face.

“He likes you.” Daenerys smiled. “Do you want to ride him?”

“Ride him?” Jon was stunned. “I thought you had to be a Valyrian to ride a dragon.”

“Rhaenyra once invited all of Westeros to try and ride a dragon, and the sheep girl Nettles was able to tame Sheepstealer. And Ulf too, a blacksmith’s bastard who tamed the dragon Silverwing. Rhaegal is Drogon’s brother, and my child. He trusts me, and I trust you.”

“I don’t know, Dany.” Jon did not much care for dying again, especially not at the hands of a dragon.

“Trust me, Jon Snow; I’ve grown fond of you, and so have my dragons.”

It did not feel right to Jon, but he began to approach Rhaegal’s right wing. Slowly, running his hands along the dragon’s emerald scales, he placed a foot on one of the thin bones holding it’s wings together. When Rhaegal made no attempt to throw him, Jon became surer of himself. In a handful of strides, Jon had made his way on to Rhaegal’s back, and sat himself between the shoulder blades. Looking down from the dragon’s back, Jon guessed he was 20 or more feet in the air.

“What do I hold onto?” Jon yelled over to Daenerys, who had climbed on the back of Drogon.

“His horns, like this.” She grabbed tight around the bone-like horns that stood more than a hand tall down Drogon’s neck. Jon did the same on Rhaegal.

“How does he know to fly?”

“Follow me!” Drogon let out a euphoric roar and launched himself into the sky. Following his brother, Rhaegal ran forward as if to prepare for flight. Bracing himself, Jon held tighter and shut his eyes.

But nothing could have prepared him for the rush of power that moved through him as Rhaegal left the ground. Jon felt weightless as Rhaegal climbed higher and higher; the cold air was rushing passed him, but the tremendous heat coming off of Rhaegal kept it at bay. When he finally opened his eyes, Jon looked down and realized he was more than a hundred feet off the ground. The snowy hills rolled beneath him, and he could see for miles. Daenerys on Drogon was ahead, leading Rhaegal over Winterfell. He could not make out the reaction of the people below, and Rhaegal was flying too fast for him to think on it much. In a heartbeat they had crossed over Winterfell, and were barreling further north. Jon’s heart was racing near as fast as the dragon was flying, but his fear had turned to exhilaration. Jon began to scream, not because he was afraid, but because he was excited. The rushing sound of Rhaegal’s wings sweeping through the sky, they way the snow blanketed the trees in a wonder of white and green, the color of the sky when you were this high, it was all so beautiful. The dragon roared back at him, and for a moment Jon felt as if they were one. He leaned forward and pressed his legs hard into Rhaegal’s sides and the dragon seemed to understand what he meant, stretching his neck and shortening the beats between the flapping of his wings. In moments they had caught up to and overtaken Drogon, and now Jon was leading the way. He had gone up this way many times, on hunting trips with his father and Robb, and knew all the hills and forests. Rhaegal swooped down low to the ground and let his wings skim the tops of the trees; Jon could tell the dragon liked the way it felt, and so did he.

They must have flown for miles and miles, Rhaegal seeming to know through some instinct where Jon wanted to go, and they made their way north and north. The hills gave way to mountains and valleys transformed to canyons. Flying overhead was beautiful, but Jon sent Rhaegal into a dive and dropped down between the cliffs, pulling up just in time for Rhaegal’s tail to slap against the ice. Jon followed the canyon for a good while before pulling up into the sky to regain direction. He turned Rhaegal back south and headed for a familiar destination.

Once Jon saw the waterfalls, frozen over now, he knew where to land. He had come hunting here with Robb hundreds of times when they were boys. Winterfell was a place Jon could never let himself feel at home, because it could never be his; but in the wild of the North, he could let himself be home. He hadn’t been back here since he left for the Night’s Watch, and not much had changed in the years he’d been gone; there was much more snow, and the water stood frozen in time like glass, but that only made it more beautiful.

Jon almost lost himself in the wonder of it all, when Drogon landed beside his brother with a tremendous _thud_. “Where are we?” Daenerys asked, out of breath. Her cheeks were red, and her eyes looked like they stung.

“A place I used to go with my brother Robb, when we were out hunting.”

“You wanted to show me?”

In truth, Jon had forgotten about Daenerys and Drogon; he had gotten too caught up in flying to remember who was with him. “Yes.” He lied.

The look she gave him made him feel like a monster. Most times, it was easy to remember why he had to lie; it was as simple as recalling the first time they’d met, when she looked down on him from on high and demanded he give away his crown. But in rare moments, he saw what so many others did in her; a kind of openness that had its own charm.

Jon had tried to love her, truly. He had told himself that all monarchs danced close to tyranny, and that Daenerys’ actions were no different. He was willing to look passed that if loving her meant he could save his people and keep his honor. But her words held no appeal to him; she was not bad company, but never made him laugh or even smile. However he tried, Jon Snow could not make his heart stir for Daenerys Targaryen. Perhaps because his heart already belonged to another; but she made him feel more dishonorable than Daenerys ever could.

“How did it feel? Riding him?” Daenerys asked him eagerly.

“Amazing. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

“Riding a horse will never be the same, will it?” She said with a smile.

“I don’t think so, no.” Jon said.

“Could you feel him, Rhaegal? Did you know what he wanted?”

“I thought I could, in some moments. He always knew where I wanted to go.”

The look she gave him bordered on lust. “He’s bonded with you.” She seemed to drift away for a moment and said, “The dragon has three heads. . .”

Jon didn’t know what she meant by that, but he knew he had crossed a line he could not walk back. Now that he had ridden one of her dragons, Daenerys had bonded to him, too.

 _I may not love her, but I must not leave her_. If Jon’s personal happiness was the price to pay for the lives of the North, and the realm, it was one he must pay.

“We could stay here a thousand years.” She said, looking out onto the waterfalls. But her cheeks looked almost fevered, and her teeth were chattering.

“Aren’t you cold?” He asked.

“So keep me warm.” Daenerys put herself in his arms and kissed him passionately.

Jon tried to lose himself in the kiss, but something made him open his eyes; and when he did, he saw Drogon’s. The dragon stared at him, right through him, and bared his teeth.

_I must not wake the dragon._


	5. THEON I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon Greyjoy sets sail toward Winterfell; headed towards Sansa Stark, the girl that saved him and gave him his name back. But also to Bran Stark, the boy who's life he ruined and castle he stole.

Theon sat in the hull of the ship his sister had given him, headed toward Winterfell. Headed to Sansa Stark. When he left Winterfell with her, chased by Ramsay’s hounds, he thought he would never go back. He could still feel the things Ramsay had done to him there, the things he had seen Ramsay do to Sansa.

_Reek, reek, rhymes with bleak._

“Theon, your name is Theon.” He said to himself.

“What did you say?” One of the men asked.

“Nothing.” He mumbled in reply. His hands were shaking and he felt his head pounding.

He had wanted to go back more than anything, but as his ship grew closer, Theon had grown more anxious. Where he used to have an iron stomach, the slightest wind would leave him sick for days now. Some days he wondered if he should have stayed with his sister Yara; she was sailing back to the Iron Islands to reclaim them for Queen Daenerys Targaryen. His sister didn’t care much for Daenerys, but the Queen had promised the Iron Islands independence when she sat the Iron Throne, and that was a cause Yara was willing to fight for.

Yara had done more for him than almost anyone, and leaving her had left Theon with a weight of guilt on his mind. When he had lived as Reek in the kennels of the Dreadfort, she had tried to save him and bring him home. Many Ironborn died that night, all for nothing; the way they had screamed as Ramsay slowly killed them still rung in his ears.

_Reek, reek, rhymes with shriek._

“Theon. You’re name is Theon Greyjoy.” He whispered to himself.

He had done his best to make things right with his sister. Only 8 days had passed since he had snuck onto Euron’s ship to set her free; in truth it had been much easier than he expected. Euron had been with the Lannister Queen, and high off his victory of bringing her the Golden Company. Theon and his small group of loyal Ironborn were the last thing on Euron’s mind, and his crew full of mutes did not do much to help him. Three of Theon’s men had died, but many more of Euron’s had been killed; and Yara was free.

When Yara told him she was going to sail to the Iron Islands, he had meant to go with her. It was the least he could do for the sister who had almost given her life for him.

“And what will you do for Queen Daenerys in Winterfell?” He had asked her.

“My ships are too few and my men too weak,” she said, “I wouldn’t be much help to her even if we could make it to Winterfell before the Army of the Dead. The fate of the North is out of our hands, brother.”

Was this Theon’s destiny? To always abandon the Starks when they needed him most?

“Are you okay?” His sister looked worried for him. “I didn’t realize we’d be going home, is all.” He tried to sound okay. Yara worried about him, even though he had let her down so many times.

“You want to be with them, don’t you?” Yara asked, and Theon knew she meant the Starks.

“I’m loyal to you, and to the Ironborn. I am Theon Greyjoy, your brother and heir. I should be with you.”

“But that’s not what you want, is it? I know you love them. Go home, brother, your _real_ home.”

“But I can’t leave you, not again.”

“You don’t owe me anything.” Yara had tears in her eyes. “I love you, Theon, and I always will. But I’ll be fine on Pyke with my men. Go to Winterfell, the Starks need you more than I do right now.” She hugged him then, and he hugged her back fiercely.

“I’m so sorry.” _For leaving now, for leaving before, for never being the brother you deserved._

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” She said, and Theon knew Yara meant it.

“What is dead may never die.” He told her. 

"But kill the bastards anyway.”

She gave him a ship and men to crew it, and they parted ways.

Now he was almost to White Harbor. As he made his way on deck, toward the front of the ship, he could see the port in the distance. Thinking of going back to Winterfell made him feel dizzy. Sansa had promised she would protect him from Jon, and she had. When Theon saw him on the shores of Dragonstone, for a moment he thought Jon meant to kill him where he stood; but Sansa had told Jon what Theon had done, and Jon took her words to heart. But what of Bran? He was home now, too. Theon had wronged no one as much as he had wronged the little Prince of Winterfell. The look Bran had given him that day still made Theon’s stomach turn. Nothing made him feel as wrong as thoughts of Bran and Rickon. He had only said he killed them, he never wanted to hurt them, but then he lost to Ramsay Bolton.

 _You killed Rickon as much as he did_ , Theon thought to himself. _Reek, reek, rhymes with weak._

But Theon knew he must go back to them. He had to face Bran again, to say how sorry he was. For what he did to Bran and Rickon, for abandoning Robb, for everything. They were his family, and he should be with them. He’d never known what was right, never known how to choose. But he didn’t have to anymore; he could be Theon Greyjoy, brother to Robb and Bran and Arya and Rickon and Sansa Stark. He just had to be brave enough to say he was sorry.

He missed them dearly, too. It had been Sansa who saved him, when he didn’t even know his name anymore. They had jumped from the ramparts of Winterfell together, and he had wanted to take her all the way to Castle Black. But Jon Snow had been Lord Commander, and Theon could not bring himself to face him. Theon had only just remembered his name, and the thought of facing Robb’s brother was too much for him. When Brienne of Tarth pledged herself to Sansa, Theon knew she would be safe; instead of going to Castle Black, he turned toward Pyke. He’d meant to make Yara Queen the day he arrived at the Kingsmoot.

But the thought of Sansa and Jon never left his mind. When he and Yara heard they had recaptured Winterfell and Jon was King in the North, he felt a tremendous wave of relief. No one could hurt Sansa if she had Winterfell, and especially not when Jon Snow was there to watch over her. It was Theon’s fault they’d lost their home, _but at least I helped her get it back_.

His ship dropped anchor on the shores of White Harbor, and he and his men rowed to the docks. The Northmen there seemed ill at ease to help men with the kraken on their breastplates, but they must have known Yara was pledged to Daenerys Targaryen because they gave them a room to stay and horses for the journey to Winterfell.

In his room, Theon took off the sigil of House Greyjoy and instead chose a plain grey doublet to wear down to the inn’s kitchen. Looking at himself in a mirror properly, he could hardly recognize himself. His once dark hair was white as snow now, and his face and body wore many scars. He could never get his back or shoulders quite straight, and walked with a limp where Ramsay had flayed some of his toes. And his hands, nothing hurt like losing his fingers; once he’d been the best archer in Winterfell, even saved Bran’s life with a bow, but now he could hardly hold a cup, much less knock draw and loose an arrow. _No one here could tell who I am_ , he thought, _not like this. It’s better this way_. If they knew Theon Greyjoy, turncloak and traiter, was in their dining hall, he probably wouldn’t make it out.

As he entered the inn’s dining hall, he saw many northmen were already there eating and drinking. He sat close by their table, trying to listen in on their talk. They were yelling and laughing, merrier than Theon would expect from men getting ready to face an army of the dead. Theon picked the man closest to him and asked for word of Winterfell.

“The King in the North and his Dragon Queen are there as we speak, rode through several nights ago on their way.”

"He's not the King in the North no more." One of the men sad gruffly. "Bent his weak knees to the pretty girl."

"I won't believe it til he keeps his knees on the ground after the war's over." Another man said.

"I don't care who Lord Snow bends to, no one else past the Neck is going to kneel to some Targaryen twat."

“And the White Walkers?” Theon felt the mood change as the men heard his question.

“They broke through the Wall, one of them sat on the back of a bloody dragon. Talk is he flies south on the winds of winter.”

“But Winterfell stands?”

“As far as the lot of us know, the Others haven’t attacked nobody yet.”

Theon chugged his ale. Knowing the Starks and Winterfell were still safe made his heart beat calmer, but the Wall falling made the threat more real than it had ever been before. Now the Army of the Dead was marching through the North, almost no one to stop them from tearing Winterfell down on their way south. He knew when he decided to ride north that he could be riding toward his death, but it had never hit him so hard before.

_I’ll die with them if I have to. I should have already._

Robb Stark had been his best friend, his brother. Knowing Robb died without him made Theon feel sick to his stomach. He’d loved no one as much as Robb.

While his men stayed to drink more before they turned in, Theon quickly went back up the stairs to his room. His hands were shaking and he felt nauseous. He stripped down to his smallclothes and tried to fall asleep; but in his dreams, he saw a corpse with the head of a wolf, bleeding from his chest, and knew it was Robb. The dead men with him stood in eerie silence, and Theon realized he was holding a spear. For some reason even he didn’t know, he raced towards Robb and tried to put the spear through his dead heart. But when he met Robb, the dead king grabbed his spear and easily broke it in two. Somewhere in the dream, the head of the wolf had gone and it was Robb he was looking at again; the spikes of his bronze crown were dug into his head, almost as if it was a part of him. But instead of the soft, river blue eyes Theon knew so well, Robb looked up at him with eyes cold as winter and hard as ice. He woke just as his brother’s blade drove up through his chest into his heart.


	6. JON II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa have a tense fight, before he hears some devastating news from Samwell Tarly

He stood outside Sansa’s door, too nervous to knock. Jon had been avoiding her since she had met Daenerys, and he had seen the disapproval in her eyes. He knew he would have to explain himself to her at some point, but Jon didn’t know how he could.

Gathering his courage, Jon knocked on her door three times softly. He expected to hear Sansa’s courteous “come in”, but instead his knocks were met with the sound of silence. He knocked a couple times more, harder against the wood, but Sansa still did not reply. Tentatively, he cracked the door open slightly to see if she was inside. Jon couldn’t help but smile as he saw Sansa asleep at her desk, Ghost curled up on her feet. She had her arms folded to make a pillow for her head, and looked peaceful as she rested on a half-finished letter she must have fallen asleep writing.

Seeing Ghost made Jon smile. When Sansa had first come to Castle Black, he could hear her crying in her sleep all the way in his own room; Jon knew the things Ramsay had done, he had seen the scars she tried to hide. He didn’t want to go in and comfort her himself; he didn’t want to overstep, and make her uncomfortable. She leaned on him for comfort often, as he leaned on her after he died, but she also needed to be alone sometimes, he’d realized. But he couldn’t stand hearing her and not comforting her, so he’d sent Ghost to sleep beside her; the direwolf had always made him feel better, and he hoped he’d have the same effect on Sansa. The two had become fast friends.

In truth, Jon could have taken Ghost with him to Dragonstone; but he wanted Sansa to have someone if he couldn’t be there for her. Sometimes Jon had dreamed of her, as if he was Ghost, following her as she went to speak with Lord Cerwyn or Lady Mormont, or curling up as the two fell asleep; but she was always gone when he woke. The months he’d spent on Dragonstone had been some of the worst of his life.

Watching her sleep now, he wondered what she dreamed of. He almost didn’t want to wake her, but Jon knew she wanted to see him. “Sansa,” he whispered softly, “Sansa, wake up.” He gently nudged her shoulder.

“Jon?” She said, slightly confused, as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

“Sorry I woke you,” he said nervously, “but you seemed like you wanted to speak with me.”

“Yes, I-”

Sansa was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Come in.” She said.

Maester Wolkin entered the room holding a scroll from the rookery that looked to have the seal of House Glover. Sansa accepted the letter and the maester saw himself out of the room.

“What does it say?” Jon asked, curious.

Sansa’s eyes ran back and forth across the page as she read it. “Lord Glover is staying in Deepwood Mott with his men.” She tossed the letter onto the desk, clearly frustrated.

“’I will stand behind House Stark’, he said, didn’t he?” Jon was furious.

“’I will stand behind the King in the North’ is what he said.” Sansa’s anger turned toward Jon.

Jon had known when he entered the room that he’d have to have this argument, but he still dreaded it. “We needed allies. We needed her.”

“And you had to kneel away the North to get her?” Sansa rarely raised her voice at him, and he hated it. “You didn’t even ask me!”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Jon’s words came out louder than he wanted, and Sansa looked wounded. “I’m sorry,” he said softer, “you know I would’ve asked you if I had the chance.”

“Just like you asked me when you decided to leave?” She didn’t seem angry anymore, just hurt.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for how everything happened.” Jon stepped closer to her and held her cheeks in his hands, “I’m just asking you to trust me, please. I did what I thought was right. I didn’t have a choice.”

“I’m trying. I really am, Jon, but sometimes it’s hard,” She looked up at him with her soft blue eyes, “I was here all by myself. For months! It wasn’t easy, defending you after you left. All the men, Glover, Umber, Mormont, Cerwyn, Manderly, all of them thought about leaving just like you.” She back away from him and sat down at the desk.

“Thank you. I mean it; I never could have left the North if I wasn’t sure you were watching it for me.”

“But you gave it away! We fought so hard to get it back, for nothing? So Daenerys Targaryen could have it?”

“We need her, Sansa. She has two full grown dragons. You haven’t seen them, the Army of the Dead; but I’ve fought them, _twice_. If you knew what was coming, you’d have bent the knee, too.”

“And then what? Say we defeat the White Walkers; we’re just supposed to give everything up because she helped defeat an army that would have killed her otherwise?”

“Is that really worse than dying?” Jon paused for a moment. “I wouldn’t have bent the knee if I didn’t think she could be a good Queen. She won’t hurt the North, not with me in it.”

“So the talk is true?” Sansa’s voice was growing sharper. “She’s not just your queen, is she?” Sansa made the question sound like an accusation.

“What does that mean?”

“Did you bend the knee to save the North, or because you love her?” Sansa seemed furious now.

Jon did not know how to answer. He was Daenerys’ consort, and intended to marry her. _But it’s not what you think, I promise. I don’t love her_. But the last person he should tell that to was Sansa. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? How do you not know!?”

“Would that be so bad? If the North had a say in running the Seven Kingdoms?”

“And what if she’s not a good queen? What if she’s like her father, or worse, the rest of her family? What if she uses the dragons on us after the White Walkers?”

“She won’t.”

“And how do you know?”

“Because she loves me.”

The words seemed to hit Sansa like a physical blow. “So you do know, then? You’re in love?”

“It’s not that simple.” Jon had backed himself into a corner he didn’t know how to escape.

“It seems quite simple to me.” Sansa put her head in her hands. “How are you going to explain this to our bannermen? Even if you say it’s not so simple, you have to understand how it looks.”

“I know. But they’ll realize with time that this is good for them, an alliance between the North and the South. You understand, don’t you?” He needed her to say yes.

“Why did it have to be this way? Why couldn’t it be an alliance with an independent North?”

“She didn’t want that. She wants to be Queen of a united Kingdom.”

“And what about the Iron Islands? Yara stylizes herself Queen of them in the letters she sends to the Great Lords.” Sansa asked.

“A mere title. The Iron Islands are no more independent now then they were when Robert was King.”

“So Queen Daenerys just gets whatever she wants? And you’re happy with this?”

“It’s not like I had a choice, Sansa, she had three dragons!”

“She forced you to give up your crown, yet you want to marry her?”

“I never said that.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it? If she loves you and you love her, a marriage alliance should follow.” Sansa seemed to spit the words at him.

“I’m doing what I think is best. If I marry her, she can’t hurt the North.”

“But we’re not free anymore. And what if your kids are less Stark than Targaryen? Robert Baratheon was Aegon’s descendent, yet he smashed Rhaegar’s chest at the Trident all the same. What happens in a hundred years, when the heir to the Iron Throne doesn’t care about the blood we shared generations before, and comes for the North with dragons?”

“What happens a hundred years from now doesn’t matter if we’ll all be dead before winter ends!” Jon knew he made the right choice, even if it was the hard one. _People hated Torrhen, too_ , he told himself, _but eventually they understood._

“But what if we’re not dead?”

“Then we can figure it out after we live. I promise, I’ll make this work, Sansa. I did what I had to, and I’ll do what I have to when the war is over, too.”

“Okay.” Jon couldn’t tell if Sansa had genuinely seen his side of things, or if she was tired of fighting.

“Please trust me. I would never do anything I thought could hurt you.” Jon bent down and kissed her on the forehead.

“I just hope you’re right about her.”

“Me too, Sans.” After that, he left her room.

Jon made his way to the library, trying to find Samwell Tarly. Sansa had sent word that he had left the Citadel, for reasons unknown, and had come to Winterfell only a few days before he and Daenerys arrived. Jon hadn’t seen his friend in the courtyard or the Great Hall though, but he had said hello to Gilly and little Sam. Gilly seemed to avoid Jon’s questions about Sam, and had excused herself after that; it almost made Jon feel like Sam was avoiding him, but he had no reason to. And Jon was eager to see him again; they’d last seen each other before Sam left the Wall, before Jon had died. So much had happened since then.

When Jon entered Winterfell’s library, he saw Sam with his nose in a book, a candle lit beside him. “Sam!”

Sam leaped up out of his chair, startled. “Jon!”

Jon stepped forward to hug his friend. “How have you been? I saw Gilly and little Sam; he’s grown so much!”

“I’ve been great, spent some time at the Citadel, didn’t learn anything too important. . .How have you been? I mean, besides dying and being brought back to life.” Sam finished awkwardly.

“Better before I went to Dragonstone. Never let anybody make you a King, Sam.” From there, Jon told Sam the story of how he’d left the Night’s Watch and led an army of Freefolk against Ramsay Bolton. Sam already knew most of the important details, from maesters at the Citadel who had received ravens from the Lords and Ladies of the North, but Jon wanted to talk to somebody about it. And Sam filled him in on everything that had happened at the Citadel, and why he’d left. Jon had never expected the Citadel to send ravens supporting his cause, but it still stung to hear they called him a liar.

“I tried to make them understand, I swear it. They wouldn’t listen.” Sam seemed embarrassed by his failure.

“I believe you. If you couldn’t convince them, no one could. At least we have two dragons now.”

At the mention of Daenerys, Sam’s face turned beet red. “Jon, there’s something I have to tell you. About Queen Daenerys, about your father. . .”

“My father? What does he have to do with Dany?”

“I-I don’t know how to say this.”

“Just spit it out, Sam.” Jon had no idea what his friend was about to say, but the fear in Sam’s eyes made his heart race.

“Not here, where someone could hear us.”

“Do you want to go to my chambers then?”

“No. We need to go somewhere you’re certain no one can hear us.”

“Follow me.” Jon grabbed Sam’s hand and led him out of the library, walking fast toward the crypts of Winterfell.

Jon had rarely been down to the crypts since they had laid Rickon to rest next to their father. It was a place of ghosts to Jon, and always seemed cold and unyielding. Most of his nightmares took place in the Winterfell crypts; angry, vengeful ghosts screaming at him to leave. But he had visited his father’s statue before he left for Dragonstone; it was the only place besides the Godswood where he felt like a Stark.

“I don’t think I’m supposed to be down here.” Sam said, uneasy.

“It’s the only place where I know no one is listening.” Jon said, as they walked deeper into the crypts.

Sam stopped short when they reached his aunt Lyanna’s statue. “You’re sure no one could hear us?”

“I’m sure of it. Now say what it is on your mind Sam, you’re worrying me.”

“When I was at the Citadel, I found a diary, well really Gilly found it. . .That’s not important. . .We found a diary that belonged to the High Septon during Robert’s Rebellion.”

“And?”

“And he wrote about your, your aunt Lyanna,” he pointed at the statue, “and Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“Everybody knows he took her.” Jon said, confused.

“But that’s not exactly what happened. According to the High Septon, Lyanna chose to run off with him. The septon says they were in love.”

“I don’t understand why this is so important, Sam.” The news that Lyanna may not have been abducted was nothing small, but Jon did not understand why something that happened more than a decade ago mattered so much when dead men were marching on Winterfell.

“They had a baby, Jon.”

“What? How?” Jon paused. “Who?”

“That’s what I wanted to tell you. You’re not. . .You’re not Eddard Stark’s son. You’re the son of Rhaegar Targaryen.” Sam could barely stumble over the words.

“No, I’m not.” Jon did not know why Sam believed something so absurd.

“But you are. Your mother was Lyanna Stark. That’s why Lord Eddard raised you as a bastard, because he promised your mother.”

“That’s not true, Sam! Ned was my father; he wouldn’t have lied.”

“Unless it was to protect you. He died on the Sept of Baelor, confessing treason to save his daughter, he-”

Jon cut him off, “No. He wouldn’t have lied about this. I’m not Rhaegar’s son, I’m not Lyanna’s son. Ned was my father. Why would you believe this? Because of something some old septon wrote in a book? How could he have known?”

“He didn’t. Bran did.”

“Bran? How could Bran know?”

“He has visions. He knew the Wall fell before Tormund’s raven arrived, and knew Lord Baelish’s crimes before he confessed them. And he saw your mother, Lyanna, in the tower of joy, when she gave you to Lord Eddard. She made him promise to protect you from King Robert, and he did. That’s why he raised you as his bastard, to keep you safe.”

“You’re telling me I’m the bastard son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, and my mother was Lyanna Stark?” Jon could not think clearly.

“No, you’re not a bastard. In the High Septon’s diary, he says he married Rhaegar and Lyanna, following the tradition of Aegon and his descendants. When Elia and her children died, you became the Heir to the Iron Throne.”

Jon wanted to throw up. “You’re sure?”

“Bran’s visions have never been wrong, and he’s certain. Rhaegar named you Prince Aegon Targaryen, Seventh of his Name. By blood right, the Iron Throne is yours.”

“And Daenerys. . . _Oh god_.” The weight of Sam’s words were starting to hit Jon. Not only was Ned not his father, meaning he wasn’t a bastard – or a Stark – but he also outranked Daenerys in line for the Throne. And she was his aunt, several times over.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked, and Jon realized he had fallen against the wall.

“You can never tell anyone about this, do you understand? No one can know Sam, this can never get around to Daenerys. _She can’t know_.”

“I promise I won’t tell, Jon, I barely had the courage to tell you. . .”

The sound of blood rushing in his ears made it impossible for Jon to hear the rest of what Sam said. _Everything, it’s all ruined_. Hearing that his father had lied to him all his life was enough to make him sick, but he couldn’t even think about that when he realized he was Heir to the Iron Throne. The gamble he had made by sleeping with Daenerys, all of it had turned to ash in his hands.

He lurched off the wall and heaved up his supper. On his knees coughing up spit and junks of the stew he’d eaten hours earlier, he could feel hot tears start to run down his face. “What am I going to do Sam? I’ve made a mess of everything.”

Sam bent down beside him and rubbed his back, trying to help Jon breathe. He could feel his throat tighten and his breaths were coming quick and shallow.

“It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” Having Sam there beside him kept Jon from completely losing his control, but even then, he was struggling to keep himself grounded. The two of them stayed liked that for several more minutes. Eventually Jon was able to pick himself up enough to lean his back against the wall, and regain his breath. His heartbeat had slowed with time, and he was starting to breathe long and deep.

“What do you want to do?” Sam asked him timidly.

“I need to see Bran.”


	7. BRAN I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran visits the past

Brandon Stark sat by the fire burning in his chambers, enjoying the soft heat. He had spent years beyond the wall, never having a warm bed or even food to eat; and after he had touched the Weirwood, he had hardly felt anything.

_I never should have done it, not like that_. But the Three Eyed Raven had died, and Bran knew he needed to take his place. The entire world had rested on his shoulders, and he did what he thought was best. But he had almost lost himself in the process. When he had given himself to the trees, to the children of the forest and the ghosts that lived in them, to everything they’d seen throughout history, he had gotten lost. So many things were rushing in and out of his mind, too fast to understand, too much to keep straight, he lost himself trying to understand it all.

The one vision he had seen and understood was his father with aunt Lyanna. The Three Eyed Raven had shown him his father’s fight with the King’s Guard months before, but wouldn’t let him inside the tower. But when he touched the weirwood, he saw the truth; Jon had been there, too. Bran’s brother wasn’t the son of Eddard Stark, but of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. The weight of what he had seen and felt, of his stoic father reduced to tears as he held the sister he loved, had left Bran hurt and confused. His whole life, he had thought Jon was his brother, but his father had only been lying; Bran understood why, but the truth cut deeply.

Yet the vision had passed so quickly, and he was thrown deeper into the past. He saw visions of Jaime Lannister running his gilded sword across the Mad King’s throat, of that same King screaming to _burn them all_. He saw Robert Baratheon land a blow so fierce it caved Rhaegar’s chest in, beautiful rubies flying off into the water as it mixed with the Prince’s blood. He saw Rickard Stark screaming as he cooked inside his armor, as his namesake Brandon Stark cried out and tried to save his father.

Then he was thrown much further into the past, and saw things he didn’t understand. Children of the Forest fighting with giants and men, a man who looked like Bran stood outside of a great keep that might have been Winterfell, an old man offering up his firstborn son to the Night King. He saw weirwood trees being cut down, and those same trees being planted, of men being killed in front of them as their entrails were flung up into the branches. He looked out from the eyes of a dragon, as he burnt thousands of screaming men below; and later a King placed his bronze crown at the feet of the dragon. He saw dragons fighting in the sky, screaming and clawing at each other.

The visions became faster and faster, and less ordered; at first Bran thought he was going backward through the trees, but then he lost control. The visions he saw were random and confused, not in the right order or completely unrelated to each other.

Then he saw a vision he’d first seen years before, of a black dragon flying over a city; the first time he’d seen it, he could not place the city. But now he knew it was King’s Landing. The dragon was so big he blotted out the sun, and the beat of his wings shook the ground. _This is Balerion_ _the Black Dread_ , Bran had thought to himself, _there has never been a dragon like this again_. Then the city was gone, and he was in a place he didn’t know. A young girl sat beside a terrifying man, and looked with awe on three beautiful stones. Then the same girl stood inside a pyre, flames burning around her. Then he was back in King’s Landing, watching as the Sept of Baelor exploded in a blast of green flames.

Then the visions were going too fast, he couldn’t understand at all anymore. Men were fighting and screaming and dying; the smell of blood and death was overwhelming him.

Then the vision was done, and he was sitting beside Meera Reed at the Godswood, by the Wall that separated him from The North. Bran looked at her with a grim expression.

“Are you alright, Bran?” She had asked him, “You’ve been warging for hours. I didn’t know what to do, I tried to help you but I couldn’t.”

“I don’t know what I am anymore.” Some part of him knew he was Brandon Stark, and he could remember all the things he had done before. But it was like watching the life of a stranger; he understood all the things Bran had done and felt, but he couldn’t couldn't feel those things anymore.

As he and Meera Reed travelled through the Wall and back down South, he tried to become himself again. But things like eating or sleeping did not interest him anymore, and he felt no connection to the girl he knew he had once loved dearly. By the time he had arrived at Winterfell, he feared he had lost himself forever. Jojen Reed has always warned him it would happen if he wasn’t careful; but Bran had _wanted_ to disappear into Summer. He had never wanted _this_.

But when he looked on Winterfell, he felt something stir inside him. _This is my home_ , he had thought, _this is my family_. It didn’t come back to him all at once, but the more he was in Winterfell, the more he was getting back the parts of himself that he had thought lost.

Looking at Sansa, so many years older than she had been the last time he’d seen her, before he had fallen, made him want to cry. The deeper the connection he had to something, the more he could see into the past. And when he saw Sansa for the first time, he had seen everything. He had enjoyed that part of his new identity when he looked on Winterfell and got to see as it was built, as his father and family generations passed had grown and loved and lived inside it’s walls; but when he saw the things that had happened to his sister, he _hated_ it. He hadn’t been able to control his visions, and when they came, he couldn’t make them stop. He had tried to comfort her, but as soon as he said the words, he knew he had done the opposite. He still could not quite understand how to feel as he once had. The more time he spent with Sansa and Arya, the more it came back to him, though. He had even started to laugh and smile again.

And then he had seen the Wall blown apart by the Night King and Viserion. Now the White Walkers were coming, and he knew the Night King was looking for him. Sometimes the burn on his arm would bother him, as if it knew. He was warging constantly again, trying to watch the Army of the Dead. But animals seemed to hate the wights, and the fog and wind the Night King brought with him made it hard to see more often than not. Bran was doing his best, but he feared it would not be enough.

A knock at his door pulled Bran out of his reverie, and he heard the familiar voice of Samwell Tarly, “Hello? Bran?”

“Yes, come in.” He and Sam had talked at length in the days he’d been at Winterfell. Samwell Tarly was one of only three people alive who knew Ned’s secret, and the only one Bran could talk to. Neither of them knew how to handle Jon’s true parentage; he was the King of the Seven Kingdoms, but what did that matter now? Could being a Targaryen still hurt him, or was it safe for the world to know? Would the Northern Lords fear some sort of treachery?

The one thing Sam and Bran knew for sure was that Jon needed to know. He deserved to know the truth of who he was, of why his father never told him who his mother was.

“Bran!” He turned to see that Jon Snow was with Sam, and the fevered look in his eyes let Bran know that Sam had already told him.

“He knows, Bran. I told him.” Sam said sheepishly. “Can you tell if anyone is listening? With your visions?”

“No one can hear us, Sam. I would know if they could.” Bran didn’t need powers to know that no one was nearby. He knew Winterfell better than anyone ever had; he had climbed every tower, walked every hall, found every passage.

“Tell me everything, Bran. I need to know everything. I can’t even believe it.” Jon’s voice was shaking.

“I’ll tell you everything I know. But I can’t really control my visions, Jon, they just come to me.”

“My mother, Lyanna, was she happy? Did she want me, Bran?” The desperation in his brother’s voice made Bran sad.

“Lyanna loved you, more than anything. She made father promise to protect you; you meant everything to her.”

“What about Rhaegar? Did he know Lyanna was pregnant, before he left to fight Robert Baratheon?”

“Yes. He named you Aegon Targaryen, like the conqueror.”

“And?”

“He loved Lyanna the best he could.” He didn’t know how to tell Jon about Rhaegar Targaryen. Bran had seen Rhaegar as a young man, obsessed with _The Prince that was Promised_ , of being a savior to the world. Yet it wasn’t prophecy that drove Rhaegar’s fascination with Lyanna; Bran’s aunt had been young and wild, willing to fight with men twice her age. She was everything that Rhaegar’s wife Elia couldn’t be. Bran didn’t know how to tell Jon that his father was selfish and cruel to his own kids, and didn’t care about his own wife enough to keep her safe. But Rhaegar had loved Lyanna, even if it was the death of them both.

“And what about our father, what about Ned? Why didn’t he tell me Bran, why couldn’t I know?!”

“He did what he thought was best-”

“ _What he thought was best?!_ That I live like a bastard, never knowing what sort of disgrace my mother was? He thought it was best that I should think I was his biggest regret?”

“He didn’t have a choice, Jon. He made a promise.” Bran had tried to see his father in visions, but it had been hard. He saw bits and pieces of Ned, when he brought Jon back to Winterfell and prayed in the Godswood for Robb to love him like a brother, of the agony Ned’s decision put him through; the guilt over his wife Catelyn. “I promise Jon, it wasn’t easy. He wanted to tell you every day, but he didn’t want you to do something rash. You were just a boy the last time he saw you. If he had known that would be the last time, he would have told you.” After his father died, Bran had dreamt of him; Ned had been trying to speak with Jon, to tell him something important. At the time Bran didn’t understand, but now he knew.

“He should have told me. I should have known.” Jon sat down on the ground, looking exhausted. “My whole life, I thought my mother hated me. That she was something dark and dishonorable, someone Ned couldn’t stand to tell me.” Jon had tears on his cheeks.

“He loved you Jon, you were a son to him.” Watching his brother go through something so traumatic, Bran almost wished he had never known the truth. “He tried the best he could to treat you that way.”

“I just don’t understand. How could he keep something so big from me?” Jon paused, “ _What am I supposed to do now, Bran?_ ” His voice was pleading.

“I don’t know.” Bran wished he had a better answer. “It’s your choice. I won’t tell anyone if that’s what you want.”

“No one can know, this can never get out.” Jon’s voice was suddenly stern. “I’ve already bent the knee to Daenerys Targaryen, if she finds out. . . This is life and death for me Bran.”

“What about Sansa and Arya? They’re family, Jon. They should know.”

_“Sansa. . .”_  Jon looked lost for a moment, and then gathered himself, “How do I tell them? What will they think, knowing I’m not even their brother?”

“You are.” Jon would always be his brother. “You will always be a Stark; you’re our family, Jon.”

Jon stared at the ground, saying nothing. He stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, before Sam helped him to his feet.

“I think he’s in shock.” Sam said, “I’m going to take him to his room. He just needs time to understand.”

Bran wished he could do more for Jon, but he didn’t know what. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to learn Lord Eddard was not his father, and that he was Heir to the Iron Throne. Bran had not even considered what Daenerys Targaryen would do if she found out. _No one can know_ , he told himself, _no one can know_.

Sitting alone in his room, Bran needed to turn his thoughts elsewhere. Closing his eyes, he tried to find the Night King. When he opened them, he wasn’t himself anymore; instead he was a raven, flying through a storm of snow and wind. Looking below him, he saw a vicious scene of slaughter and destruction. Wagons lay broken on the ground, horses dead in the snow beside them. And then he noticed the other bodies; women and children soaked in blood, the snow around them burning red. He slowed his wings and let himself glide downward, trying to get a closer look. Northmen and Unsullied had all been slaughtered; a few wights lay dead as well. As he wandered through the wreckage, Bran saw what he had been dreading; a boy no older than two-and-ten lay slumped against a broken wagon, the four chained shield of House Umber cracked in two on his arm. Just as Bran got close to him, Ned Umber's eyes snapped open, icy blue. Bran’s raven shrieked and cried, flying into the air and racing south. The raven flew and flew, over the Army of the Dead. He tried to catch a glimpse of the Night King and his dragon, but the closer he got to the heart of the army, the deeper the fog became and the fiercer the wind blew. The raven flew even faster, rushing ahead of the dead men. Miles and miles south, he saw the first living men; a group of men were riding furiously, their horse soaked in sweat despite the cold. Bran recognized one of them, Edd Tollett, the man who had let him South at Castle Black. A man dressed as a wilding was with him. Bran could not make out what they were saying, but he knew they were riding toward Winterfell. Bran knew where they were, too, because he had ridden the same way only a few months prior. The Army of the Dead was only a few days march from Winterfell.  

Bran tried to stay inside the raven, to find the Night King. But something ripped his mind away, and before he could understand what was happening, he was nine years old again; climbing the walls of Winterfell. And then he saw it again; Queen Cersei and her brother in the broken tower. Then he was falling, crying out for help, felt the snap of a hand grabbing at his shirt, catching him before it was too late. Bran was screaming now, trying to escape the vision; trying to escape what he knew was coming next.

“ _The things I do for love._ ” The snarl of the Kingslayer’s voice rang in his ears. Then he was falling, down and down and down. The air was racing passed him and he was crying out for help.

Bran’s eyes snapped open just before he hit the ground. He was safe, still sitting beside the fire in his old chambers. But Bran knew why he had relived his fall.

_Jaime Lannister is here._


	8. SANSA II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is woken to the news of the Kingslayer in Winterfell.

She woke to Maester Wolkin’s nervous muttering. It took Sansa several moments to finally understand what he was saying. “Jaime Lannister is here?”

She was confused at first, until Maester Wolkin explained the few details the Kingslayer had told the Winterfell guards; Cersei Lannister was not marching north, but instead had hired the Golden Company and planned to attack Jon and Daenerys’ forces when the fight against the White Walkers was done.

“Who else knows that he is here?” She asked.

“Your brother Brandon seemed to know before anyone else, and Jon and Daenerys have been told.”

“Have them meet me in the Great Hall, and invite these Lords and Ladies. . .” Sansa gave the maester instructions to bring Lady Mormont, Ser Manderly, and Lord Cerwyn. She didn’t want to invite all of her bannerman, and risk the meeting turning into a riot over the fate of Jaime Lannister, but she wanted a few trusted advisors there to watch the meeting and be able to communicate with the other bannerman what had happened. “And wake Brienne.” She always felt safer with Brienne by her side, and Brienne had mentioned Jaime Lannister more than once when telling Sansa of her travels.

Sansa picked a simple black dress, a sign of mourning for Jory Cassel and the other men Jaime Lannister had killed in King’s Landing. She knew Daenerys Targaryen would be eager to have the kingslayer answer for how he got his name, but Sansa hated Jaime Lannister for the good men he’d killed, not the Mad King he slew. _The Targaryens have killed as many Starks as the Lannisters, though we can’t wear black for them anymore_. Sansa knew she would have to hold her tongue when Daenerys Targaryen defended the man who killed her grandfather and uncle.

Sansa and Brienne arrived in the Great Hall before her brother or the Dragon Queen, and as she took her seat at the High Table she tried to read Brienne’s face; was it fear or concern in her eyes? Or both?

Sansa heard the heavy footsteps of Grey Worm and Ser Jorah Mormont, and looked over to see Daenerys Targaryen storm through the heavy doors of the Great Hall with Tyrion Lannister looking sheepish by her side. Where Sansa had dressed to grieve, Daenerys had chosen to wear the red and black colors of her house with a three headed dragon on her chest. “Where is he?” She demanded.

“My guards are holding him,” Sansa answered, trying not to get flustered. “They’ll bring him when Jon is here.”

“They call him the Kingslayer because he murdered my father. If anyone deserves to hold him prisoner, it should be the Unsullied. Jaime Lannister’s fate should be mine to decide.”

“He killed my father’s men in King’s Landing too. And Lord Karstarks’ sons, and dozens more Northmen. He fought a war to kill my brother, and his father succeeded.” Sansa felt tears welling behind her eyes, and tried to gather herself. “Jaime Lannister wronged your family, but he hurt mine as well.”

Daenerys seemed to soften at that. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Jaime Lannister will answer for all of his crimes today.”

Bran and Jon entered the Great Hall together, and sat at the High Table. Both of her brothers looked weathered and beaten; if Sansa didn’t know better, she would have thought Jon’s eyes were red and puffy from crying, and Bran looked petrified. Sansa didn’t understand why Jaime Lannister had upset her brothers so much, but she couldn’t ask them in front of everyone. Instead, she called for Jaime Lannister to be brought in.

The man who entered was almost unrecognizable to Sansa. The first time she had seen him had been years before when King Robert came to Winterfell, and she had thought he looked every bit a roaring lion; his long golden hair had fallen in curls down to his shoulders, and his brilliant green eyes had looked out at everything as if it was beneath him. He had carried himself like a man who could not lose, and to that point he rarely had.

The Jaime Lannister standing in Winterfell’s Great Hall now had none of that arrogance. His hair had been cut shorter and had begun to grey, and he had let a beard grow that hid his jaw. He had lost one of his hands when the Bloody Mummers took him and Brienne captive, and he had lost all of the bold swagger that Sansa remembered. Where once stood a lion, Sansa thought he looked more like a beaten housecat.

“Jaime Lannister. They call you the Kingslayer, do you remember why?” Daenerys voice was calm, but her eyes were not.

“Because I ran my sword across your father’s throat, and I would do it again; _gladly_.” That was the Jaime Lannister that Sansa had heard so much about, the arrogant brother Tyrion and Cersei had spoke of.

“How dare you stand before me and say that, coward!” Sansa had seen Daenerys' anger before, when she met the Northern Lords, but this was more than anger. “You swore to protect him with your life and you stabbed him in the back!”

Brienne shifting uncomfortably in her seat caught Sansa’s eye, and it almost looked like she was going to stand up; then she seemed to think better of it.

“ _’Burn them all!_ ’” Bran caught everyone’s attention, and for the first time Jaime Lannister seemed to notice her brother sitting at the High Table. “That’s what the Mad King said, before you killed him.” Where Jaime had seemed first sullen and then defiant, he looked at Sansa’s brother with only guilt. But why? Bran hadn’t seen Jaime in years, not since his fall.

“How did you know that?” The Kingslayer asked.

“I saw it in a vision.” Jaime refused to meet Bran’s eyes as he answered. “He meant it, too. _‘Burn them all!’_ That’s why you killed him, isn’t it?”

“I-,” Jaime did not seem to know how to answer. “He was going to kill everyone, I-I didn’t have a choice.” Jaime’s eyes were almost glazed over. Then he looked at Daenerys and began his story. “He sent your mother and brother off to Dragonstone, Rhaegar was dead on the Trident, and he burned his Hand and gave the pin to a pyromancer. He’d been planning it for months, ever since my father refused to call the banners for him. Wildfire, so much wildfire, all under the city. He wanted to kill everyone. _‘Let Robert be king over charred bones and cooked meat’_ is what he said.”

Daenerys face suddenly changed as Jaime Lannister recalled what her father had said. When the Kingslayer had first began, Daenerys seemed eager to interrupt him, but now she sat in stunned silence.

“And what of the Northman you killed, Lannister? What of my father’s men you killed in the street like dogs? The boys you killed trying to reach my brother?” Sansa hurled the words at him. “Did they not matter?”

“I can’t defend the things I did, only why I did them.” Jaime paused. “I had to stand by my family.”

“The things we do for love.” Bran said, and Jaime seemed to physically shrink away from the words, stumbling backwards and barely catching himself before falling.

“Lady Sansa.” Brienne stood from her seat. “I know Jaime better than anyone here. I travelled with him through the Riverlands and would be dead without him. He lost his hand to save my life. When you had fled King’s Landing, he gave me your father’s sword and armor to go with it. If not for him, I never would have found you. He swore an oath to your mother Lady Catelyn, and he would have died to make good on his word. I know he’s done terrible things, but he is an honest man and has paid dearly for his sins. Queen Daenerys, the hand that killed your father is the one Ser Jaime lost defending my honor, and Lord Bran-”

Jaime grabbed Brienne’s arm as if telling her to stop. She looked from him to Bran several times, and then sat back down.

“I can vouch for my brother, too, your grace.” Tyrion Lannister said.

“As you vouched for your sister?” Daenerys shot back at him.

“I made a mistake.”

“A mistake? No. You have made _several_ mistakes, all in defense of your family!” Daenerys turned back to Jaime. “And what of your sister? I imagine she’s not riding to my aid as she promised?”

“That was a lie, to distract you from the truth of her plans. She’s hired the Golden Company to take back the Kingdoms she’s lost while you fight the enemy to the north.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I promised to fight for the living, and I keep my word.”

“And how do I know you won’t kill me as you killed my father? Even if you had reason to mistrust my father, you pledged your life to him and then ran your sword through his back. I cannot forgive that.”

“If Brienne says Ser Jaime is trustworthy, then he can stay.” Sansa was choking back tears as she spoke. The idea of forgiving Jaime Lannister, of letting him live in Winterfell when Jory and Robb never could, made her sick. But Brienne was her closest companion and the most honorable person she had ever met.

Daenerys glared at Sansa before turning to Jon. “And what does the Warden of the North have to say about it?”

Jon had hardly been paying attention, and seemed surprised that Daenerys had asked him a question. “I have no reason to mistrust Brienne or Sansa, and we need every man we have to fight the Night King. Jaime Lannister can stay.”

Grey Worm looked to Daenerys, waiting for her to give the command before giving Jaime his sword back. “As Queen, I pardon Jaime Lannister of his crimes and give him a place in my army.” Daenerys said through gritted teeth.

The Lords and Ladies were dismissed, and soon the Great Hall was almost empty. Daenerys Targaryen had been sure to leave first, and in a hurry; Tyrion, Grey worm, and Ser Jorah Mormont following her like ducklings.

Sansa meant to leave immediately as well; her last conversation with Jon left her too exhausted to approach him, and the memories of her father in King’s Landing made her want to be alone.

“Sansa, I need to talk to you.” Brienne’s voice caught her before she left the hall.

“About what?”

“Ser Jaime. I know I argued for him, but there’s something you should know. . .”

“What is it?”

“I would tell you, but it’s not my place. Ask your brother, Brandon, and he will tell you.”

“Bran? What does Bran have to do with Jaime Lannister?”

“It’s his story to tell, my lady.”

“Thank you, Brienne.” Sansa said, before going to see her brother.

She caught up to Bran not far from the Great Hall, but he wanted to speak with her in Winterfell’s godswood.

“Remember how we used to play here? Running through the snow and pushes each other into the pool.” Sansa used to dream about it often.

“You would read me stories about knights and heroes, and Arya would laugh at us.” Bran smiled as he said it; it was the first time Sansa had seen him smile since he had come back. “This was always my favorite place, in front of the heart tree.”

“Father loved it here too.” Since Petyr Baelish had died, Sansa hadn’t talked to Arya or Bran much about their father. It was an unspoken agreement between them; that their father’s death hurt too much. “You and Arya remind me of him so much.”

“I see him sometimes, in my visions. It’s hard to find him, but being back here, by his Godswood, I can watch him grow up. I saw him playing with Uncle Benjen and Lyanna, when they were as young as were before we left. He looked so much like Jon. . .”

“Can you talk to him at all?”

“No.” Bran looked troubled. “Even if I could, I would never try and change things. The Three Eyed Raven – the man who taught me how to see through the trees – he said it should never be done, because it can only make things worse.”

“What’s it like?” Sansa asked. “Seeing everything?”

“It’s hard to explain. I can’t see everything, not clearly, but if I try and see something specific I can find it. At first, I think it was too much too fast, I couldn’t pull out of the visions, but as time passes I get better at controlling it. That’s why. . .” Bran hesitated, “I wanted to apologize, for the things I said before. . . I can’t always control the visions and it just came to me. . .”

Sansa knew what memory he was referring to. “I didn’t know that you knew.” When Bran had mentioned her wedding night that day in the Godswood, it blindsided her. But Sansa knew that everyone knew, really. The stories that spread of her marriage to Ramsay Bolton followed her everywhere; first that she was a traitor to the North and Ramsay’s sorceress bride, spurred on by the rumors that she had killed Joffrey. And then after she escaped, the _other_ stories of what he’d done. No one knew for sure, but most of the stories they came up with were true. Even her own men gossiped about it in the halls of Winterfell. But she had only ever confided in Jon what Ramsay had done; and Theon Greyjoy had been there with her, but she feared she would never see him again.

“Sometimes it’s hard to come back and be a boy again. I’ve seen so many awful things, and sometimes I can’t make them stop. I’m sorry.”

Sansa grabbed tightly to Bran’s hand. “I know, and I know you never meant to hurt me. I missed you so much.” Bran had changed so much from the little boy who was scared of the dark, scared of monsters. Back then, Sansa had told him the monsters weren’t real and comforted him until he fell asleep; but now she knew most of the monsters were real, and Bran had seen them more than anyone. “What was it like, beyond the wall? Are the White Walkers as bad as Jon says?” Sansa didn’t doubt Jon, but she hated not knowing the enemy she faced.

“The trees remember the first Long Night. I can look through them and see what happened. The White Walkers are as bad as Jon says, maybe worse, but we beat them once before.” Bran’s voice sounded oddly hopeful.

“Can you see the future? When you look through the trees?” Sansa still did not fully understand how her brother’s visions worked.

“I’m not sure. When I look into the past, I can see everything so clear. I think I’ve seen glimpses into the future, but I can’t stay in the moment. I’ve seen things, but I have no way of knowing what they mean. Maybe when they happen, I’ll know.”

“Speaking of your visions, Brienne said you know something about Jaime Lannister. She said I should know, but that it was your place to tell me.”

At the mention of Jaime Lannister, Bran’s face contorted. “Do you remember the day I fell from the Broken Tower?”

Sansa knew where this was heading, and her stomach felt queasy. “I’ll never forget the day you fell.” That had been the worst day of her life until Ser Illyn took her father’s head.

“I didn’t fall that day. Jaime pushed me because I saw him with Queen Cersei.”

Sansa had heard the rumors while she was trapped in the Red Keep, but she had thought they were just lies Stannis spread to claim the Throne from his monstrous nephew. “Bran, you can be honest with me. Are you okay that Jaime is here?” Sansa trusted Brienne with her life, but Bran was her brother. She could banish Jaime back south if it came to it, and his life would probably be in less danger than if he stayed to fight the dead in Winterfell.

“Seeing him again was frightening, but I think Brienne is right about him. I’ve seen the things he went through. I can’t forgive him what he did to me, what he took from me, but I can see the good in him.”

“If you feel uncomfortable around him at all, Bran, please tell me.” Sansa had spent enough of her life around men she feared to never let her little brother do the same.

“When I was little you told me the demons of the dark couldn’t get me if I hid under my blanket.”

“Are you going hide from Jaime under a blanket?” Sansa teased.

“I just mean, all these years later and you’re still protecting me. Thank you.”

For the second time that morning, Sansa felt tears in her eyes. “I’ll always be here to protect you, I promise.” After a pause, she said “When are you going to tell Arya and Jon about Jaime?”

“Could you tell Arya for me? I just - I don’t want to tell it again.”

“Of course. And I’ll tell Jon, too.”

“I don’t think that’s best. Jon has other matters on his mind right now.”

“Like what?” Sansa had noticed how sick Jon looked in the Great Hall, and Bran was starting to make her concerned.

“That’s not my story to tell.”


	9. ARYA II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya tries to confront Jon about his secret

Arya did not know where she wanted to go.

She had just left the Great Hall, where she had stood in the back, quietly watching as her sister and Daenerys Targaryen decided the Kingslayer’s fate. Almost everyone in the room had a reason to want Jaime Lannister dead, and Arya had seen murder in many of their eyes; it was almost surprising that he walked away from them all with his life. He almost hadn’t, except for Brienne of Tarth; she had been the only face that looked worried for Jaime Lannister instead of angry. It had been almost surreal to see him in the flesh; he had been like a ghost haunting the Riverlands when she was there. Every Stark and Lannister bannerman had been searching for him in every inn and tavern, desperate to capture him before the other. The man who stood in Winterfell’s Great Hall hardly looked like that sort of man; his eyes hardly looked above the floor, and his shoulders hunched forward in a way that made it seem his whole body had given up.

She herself had wanted the Kingslayer to pay for what he’d done as much as anyone else in the room. Arya had been there to see how hurt her father had been after Jaime’s attack, and Jory Cassel had been murdered that day. She didn’t see how losing his stupid hand could somehow pay for all the innocent lives he’d taken, but Arya wanted to trust Brienne of Tarth. Her mother had trusted Brienne more than anyone, enough to send her with Jaime Lannister to King’s Landing. And even after her death, Brienne had searched the Riverlands; Arya thought back to the first time she’d seen Brienne, years ago, before she had left for Braavos. And after all that time, Brienne had been by Sansa’s side when Arya returned to Winterfell. If the Starks could trust anyone, it was Brienne of Tarth.

Arya had gotten to know Brienne a little since she’d come home; she was one of the few people who wouldn’t hold back when they sparred, and one of the best fighters Arya had ever seen. She loved to talk about armor and swords, and even had a Valyrian steel blade; it had been forged out of her father’s sword Ice, and Brienne called it _Oathkeeper._

 “For the vows I swore your mother.” Brienne had told her.

It looked nothing like her father’s sword had, though. The steel had a red color to it that Arya had never seen before, like the color of blood; as if her father’s blood had soaked into the steel. She had caught a glimpse of Jaime Lannister’s sword as Greyworm returned it, and from a distance it looked to have the same color. Where did a Lannister get a Valyrian steel sword?

Arya had wanted to talk to her sister after everyone left the Hall; Sansa looked almost in tears as she sat at the High Table. But Brienne had quickly pulled her aside, and afterward Sansa went straight to Bran and the two of them had left in a hurry. Arya would have to ask them about that later, but for now she wanted to give them time.

Jon had also left the Hall in a hurry. Arya had been shocked when he came in with Bran; his face was red and his cheeks puffy, his eyes darting around the room. She decided to go find him.

She looked in his room first, and then in the courtyard, both to no avail. She thought about going to the crypts or the Godswood next, but instead she turned toward the Winterfell stables. Ghost liked to sleep in the big stalls and he got along surprisingly well with the horses.

“Jon?” She called out when she got to the edge of the stables.

She heard a loud bang from inside one of the stalls. “Seven hells, Arya!” Jon said as he stepped out into the pathway. “When did you get so good at sneaking up on me?” His direwolf walked out of one of the stalls and sat on his haunches beside Jon.

“Old Tom always called me underfoot for a reason.” Arya said as she bent down to rub Ghost under his chin. _Arya_ _Underfoot_ was the only nickname she had as a child she actually liked.

“Were you there earlier, in the Great Hall? I didn’t see you.”

“You didn’t seem to see much of anything. Are you okay?” Jon looked better now, but he still wore a dour face that worried her.

“I-” Jon stopped himself short and paused for a long beat. “I have something to tell you, but I can’t right now.”

“Something to tell me? Jon, is something wrong?”

“Nothing is. . . nothing is _wrong_.” Jon did not sound as if he believed it himself. “I just have something important to tell you.”

“Why can’t you tell me now?” Arya hated how petulant the question sounded, but how could Jon set her up like this and not tell her?

“I want to tell you and Sansa together. I think. . . I think it’s best if I tell you together, as a family.”

“And what about Bran?” Arya asked.

“He already knows.” Jon said hesitantly.

“Why does he get to know before I do? Do you not trust me?” Arya was getting annoyed. Jon had never kept something from her before.

“Bran knew before I did. If I’d known first I would have told you all together, I promise.”

Arya’s anger cooled a little when she saw how tortured Jon looked. “Can you at least tell me what it’s about. Please?”

“It’s about your– it’s about _our_ father.”

Lord Eddard had been dead for years; Arya did not understand what Jon could tell her.

“If you can’t tell me now, when can you tell me?” Arya asked, trying not to sound forceful.

“I don’t know. Soon. I just – I just need time. Soon. I promise.”

“You know you can tell me anything. You’re my big brother and I’ll always love you.”

Jon mussed her hair. “I know.” He said the words wistfully.

Arya could tell her brother wanted to be left alone, and walked out of the stables towards the courtyard.

In the past months, Winterfell’s courtyards had slowly begun to fill with more and more people. The castle was huge, with many courtyards and wards and keeps, and a godswood that was as big as many keeps; only the seat of House Lannister, Casterly Rock, and Harrenhal were bigger. Arya remembered being inside the massive keeps and towers of Harrenhal, the melted towers and broken walls always made her feel sad and lonely, but also like someone was always watching her; yet she had made the castle her own, running through the haunted space like a ghost. She had never been to Casterly Rock, so Harrenhal was the only castle she had seen bigger than Winterfell, and she much preferred her home. Where the space of Harrenhal felt abrasive, haunting and cruel, the open courtyards and wards of Winterfell felt like being little again; racing through, Sansa and Jeyne close behind, snow crunching under her boots as flakes fell in her hair. Bran had always loved climbing the high walls; they were so high Arya had always had to crane her neck just to see the tops when she was little, and even now she still could barely see them. She had never been as brave as he was though, and only watched as he jumped from the walls to the keep; he almost looked like a bird as he flew from one tower to the next.

Despite the castle’s enormous size, almost all of the open space was filled now. First all the rooms were filled and most of the Halls were turned to makeshift quarters, even the First Keep that no one had used in years was full. Then the inner ward was filled and training and archery was moved to outside Winterfell’s gates. After Sansa made the decision to bring everyone from Winter’s Town inside the high walls, almost every courtyard was full. Only the main courtyard had been left empty, to greet Daenerys Targaryen and give her people a place to stay. Thousands of men, women, and children must have been inside Winterfell. Most of the North had remained in their own homes and keeps and castles; the southern half of the North held many more people and houses, since the winters were easier and the land better for growing. But almost everyone north of Winterfell had come south to the seat of House Stark; everyone except for those who couldn’t outrun the Others.

Arya often found herself wandering through the people, watching as they read stories to their children, hung their laundry to dry, or lined up at the kitchen to eat. The only reason they were in Winterfell at all was to escape an army of dead men; yet life still went on. Everyone continuing to live as normal as they could, on the edge of the world. Arya didn’t know if she found it beautiful or terrible. _Most of us will be dead before it’s done, maybe even me_. She tried not to think like that, but it was hard not to imagine the worst that could happen. An army of dead men was marching on Winterfell. _An army of dead men was marching on Winterfell_.

Before Arya realized where she was going, her feet had brought her outside Winterfell’s forge. She knew she would find Gendry inside, beating dragonglass into something that resembled a knife or sword. For a moment she hesitated, and almost couldn’t go inside; Gendry made her stomach feel tied in a knot. Getting to know someone you hadn’t seen in years for a second time made Arya feel shaky; what if he had changed, or she had changed? What if they wouldn’t be friends anymore? She had seen him the day before, and everything had felt like it did before; but what if it was different now?

Arya told herself she was being stupid and walked into the forge. The wave of heat felt nice on her cold hands and flushed cheeks, but the loud noise was almost disorienting; metal striking metal or rock was a horrible sound, and reminded her of the fighting she’d seen in the Riverlands. Trying to ignore the memory, she walked deeper into the forge looking for Gendry, and found him shaping what looked to be her blade.

When he saw her, he smiled and said, “I didn’t expect you to come asking for your weapon so soon. It’s not done yet.” Something in his voice, a calm cockiness, suggested he knew she was here to see him, not the sword.

“Is it almost ready though? Can I see it?” She had wanted to see Gendry, but the idea of her new weapon being ready was almost as exciting.

“It’s this one.” Gendry picked it up and placed it in her hands.

It was a long staff, designed for fighting from a distance, and had a short dragonglass blade running vertical on one end. All the stories Arya heard of the wights were of mindless monsters, unskilled by themselves but lethal in numbers, and in their inability to suffer wounds; the idea behind her staff was to cut at them before they got close, before they could overwhelm her. Dragonglass was much more fragile than iron or steel, and could break if shaped into a longsword; making the staff out of wood, with a short blade on the end, gave Arya the advantage of distance without the risk of a sword breaking in the middle of a fight. It seemed simple enough to make, though Arya didn’t know much about making swords.

“The blade isn’t quite ready yet,” Gendry said as she looked it over, “dragonglass isn’t easy to work with. It breaks so easy, and you can’t melt it down or shape it. It takes hours and hours to sharpen right.”

“Thank you. It looks perfect, just like I saw in my head.” Arya paused for a moment. “You’ve seen them, haven’t you? The wights? The ravens Jon sent from Dragonstone said you went beyond the wall with him.”

Gendry’s face tightened. “I saw them, fought some of them too.”

“What are they like?” Arya had seen many things in Braavos that she would hardly believe if she hadn’t seen them with her own eyes, but an army of dead men led by soldiers of ice was beyond even her imagination.

“Death. They’re an army of death, Arya. Those things, the White Walkers, bring men back to life to fight for them. They can’t think for themselves or feel pain, they just want to kill you. And there’s thousands of them. More men then you’ve ever seen before, their faces rotted off and their bones jutting out of their skin. I hardly even saw them, and I still have nightmares. It’s not just an army of men, it’s an army of the dead.” Gendry looked hard into her eyes. “I know you want to fight them, and I know you’re not afraid of anything, but just this once Arya I think you’d be better off if you were afraid.”

“I’m not a little girl anymore!” Gendry always acted like he was so much older than her.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he knew he had said the wrong thing, “I just meant. . . I don’t want you getting hurt. You could die.”

“You could die too, you know.” It wasn’t a clever comeback, but it was all Arya could think to say.

“I know what I’m doing. I fought for the Brotherhood without Banners, and after the Red Priestess took me, I worked as a smith for years. I’ve spent more time with an axe in my hand than anybody.”

“And I don’t know what I’m doing?” Of course Gendry couldn’t know all the things Arya had done in the years they’d been apart. The last time he’d seen her, she really had been a little girl. But he had just been a boy then, too, and it was stupid of him to think she hadn’t grown up.

Arya looked carefully for something to throw. A pile of dragonglass daggers sat only a few feet away from her, and Arya walked over and picked one up carefully. She tossed it lightly in her hands several times, getting a feel for the weight and balance. “Do you see that post over there? The small notch etched into the side?” Arya pointed a finger where she meant for Gendry to look.

“Yes.” He said, clearly confused.

Carefully, Arya pulled her arm back and then launched it, and the dagger, forward. She had aimed right, and the dagger dug into the wood right on the notch. Quickly, to prove it wasn’t just luck, she picked up another and threw again. The second dagger flew as true as the first, stuck into the wood almost close enough to touch the first.

“I’m not a little girl anymore.” This time she said it confidently. “I know how to kill better than you.”

“I never thought you were a little girl.” Gendry turned his eyes away from the daggers and back to her. “I made you the dragonglass, didn’t I? I was just worried; I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“If anything I should be worried about you.” She said it with a laugh, to let him know she forgave him.

“You don’t need to worry about me.” Gendry said as he picked up an ax that had been sitting next to him. For the first time, Arya fully took in how much he’d changed since she’d last seen him. He had grown several inches, maybe even a foot, and was a head taller than she was. His shoulders were much broader than before, and his chest and arms were that of a smith’s – large and strong. Watching him stand there, she couldn’t help but think how stupid it was for him to show off his axe like that; but she also felt the urge to run a hand through his charcoal hair.

They both stared at each other for a beat too long before Arya finally said, “I should be going. You have a lot of work to do.” She handed him her unfinished blade.

“Yeah.” He said, laughing.

She caught his eye right as she turned to leave, and noticed something she’d never seen there before.

Arya left the Winterfell forge and walked quickly through the busy courtyard and up the battlements. The cold air was shocking after the warmth of the forge, and her cheeks were burning. Her mind kept going to the way Gendry smiled when he saw her, or the way he looked at her as she turned to leave. She really had missed him.

When Arya finally made it to her room, she was surprised to see Sansa waiting for her.

“I looked for you everywhere.” Sansa said, sounding tired.

“I was in the forge.”

“Why?” Sansa asked.

“Doesn’t really matter. Why were you looking for me?” Did it have something to do with what Jon was keeping from her?

“I need to tell you something important. Something about Bran.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know almost nothing about metalwork so sorry if any of the gendry stuff was painfully wrong.


	10. BRAN II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran confronts Jaime Lannister

He was still sitting by the Godswood when Jaime Lannister came to see him.

Sansa had gone looking for Arya, but he wanted to stay by the heart tree. He knew that everyone who still followed the Old Gods found comfort by the weirwoods, but something about them felt like _more_ to Bran; especially the tree in Winterfell’s Godswood. From any tree he could see the memory of them all, and it had been months since he didn’t need the trees at all to see the past, but when he was in his own Godswood it was as if the tree pulled him back through time. Seeing through the weirwoods was being connected to everything that was or is, like suddenly the whole history of everything was yours. . .

But it was different when the history really was his own. Winterfell’s Heart Tree had seen Bran the Builder raise the castle around the Godswood, had seen as the Kings of Winter sat on their thrones, and as his uncle Benjen and aunt Lyanna played at war like little kids. Bran’s father had come to the tree to pray for Jon, that Robb would love him as a brother. And the tree remembered Bran, too, how the grass crunched under Summer’s feet, or how he’d watch the Frey boys play Lord of the Crossing, and when Shaggydog had bit Little Walder and made him cry. For every time Bran saw something he wished he never had, he would get a rush of memories that made his visions worth it.

Now the vision was over, and the cold in the air felt sharper than before.

Bran could hear Jaime’s boots crunching against the snow as he marched towards him. Bran felt reflexively afraid, even though he knew he had no reason to be; Jaime had no reason to hurt him anymore.

He expected Jaime to say something, but instead he sat down beside Bran in the snow and hung his head. He sat silently like that for a moment before finally saying, “I didn’t think you remembered. Cersei was terrified after you survived the fall, that you would wake up and tell everyone what you saw. But you never did. I thought, when you said in the Great Hall. . . I thought you were going to tell them.”

“I didn’t always remember.” Before Bran had woken after his fall, the Three Eyed Raven had told him not to remember; and when he came out of the dream he didn’t. As the years passed, Bran slowly remembered more of the golden man, the details of what he’d seen slowly coming back to him. “I could’ve told them, though, you would have deserved whatever they did.” Bran trusted Arya, Sansa, and Jon with the truth of his fall, but if the Lords of the North found out they would have Jaime’s head for it.

“I’m sorry for what I did.” Jaime let the apology hang in the air, an understanding that it wasn’t enough.

Bran had watched Jaime’s life play out in tragedies; seen him be named a Knight of the Kingsguard, watched as he killed the Mad King, heard Jaime’s bloody screams when he lost his hand. He knew as well as anyone all that Jaime had suffered and lost, how much he had changed and grown to regret. But looking at his haggard face and tired eyes, Bran could still remember how he looked that day; the snarl on his face, the arrogance in his voice, _the things I do for love_. The weight of his hand on Bran’s chest like a blow, and then the air was racing passed his ears and his stomach dropped as Bran fell towards the stones below.

And it had all been for nothing; Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen had all died anyway. The War of the Five Kings tore the realm apart and Lannisters and Baratheons raised arms against each other. Any good Jaime could’ve done by pushing him never came to be.

“Why didn’t you tell them?” Jaime asked.

Bran could hardly explain it to himself. “You’re important. I can’t. . . I don’t know why, but when I saw you in the hall I knew you were. That’s why I didn’t let them kill you.”

“What do you mean you knew when you saw me?”

“I can see things, through the trees.” Bran gestured toward the weirwood. “Sometimes I don’t know what I’m seeing, but when I see people it just comes to me.”

“That’s how you knew about Aerys? I’ve only ever told Brienne.”

“Why did you never tell anyone? He was going to burn the whole city, you did what you had to.” Jaime had done horrible things in his life, but Bran knew killing the Mad King wasn’t one of them.

“He had killed so many people in front of me; your grandfather and uncle, people he thought were traitors, the Hand of the King. All those times I sat there and did nothing. . . After I killed Aerys, I sat on the Iron Throne and waited for my father to enter the Throne Room. I didn’t mean anything. . . I had been the one to kill the King, no one else was there with me. No one else had to do it. _Only me_. I deserved to sit on that Throne until someone else came to take it from me. But when Eddard Stark came in. . . No one was ever going to believe me. Letting them call me Kingslayer didn’t matter anymore. Nobody was going to write any songs about me even if they believed my story, and my honor was already gone.”

“Was he always like that? The Mad King?” All of Bran’s visions were filled with the Mad King screaming " _BURN THEM ALL!"_ , he had seen it more than anything else. Then he would see the Sept of Baelor exploding in green flame (when he’d first seen that, he didn’t understand what it was; only after coming back to Winterfell did he learn), buildings on fire and people screaming, the shadow of wings over the city. He’d seen it first when the Three Eyed Raven died and he gave himself to the weirwood, again in the courtyard of Winterfell, and when he saw Jaime in the Great Hall; he even saw it when he tried to sleep. It followed Bran with a feeling in his stomach he couldn’t shake. Why did he keep seeing it?

“When I joined the Kingsguard, he was already far gone. I never thought. . . burning the whole city. . . but it was always there, a look in his eye or a pitch in his voice, everyone around him knew he could kill them at any moment. Even before Rickard and Brandon rode to King’s Landing and Jon Arryn called the banners, we all knew. We pretended because we had to, but we all knew.”

“And Rhaegar?” Bran could watch bits and pieces of the Prince’s life, but he couldn’t understand him. He was Jon’s father, though, and Bran wanted to know everything he could.

“Rhaegar was as different as a man could be from his father. Where the Mad King was paranoid, Rhaegar was loyal to the end. He told me, he promised he was going to call a council after the war was done. He wouldn’t have let his father stay on the throne, not after Rickard and Brandon. . .”

“He kidnapped my aunt Lyanna.” Bran knew that wasn’t the whole truth, but Rhaegar had stole her away to Dorne and left her alone in the Tower of Joy. He didn’t care enough about her to let her go home to Winterfell.

“I never knew him as well as Ser Arthur Dayne did. Rhaegar was not like most people, he kept to himself most of the time and rarely spoke openly. He was crowned in grief as much as gold, and always seemed to be somewhere else. But the Rhaegar I knew never would have taken her, not if she didn’t want to go.”

“And his own wife? What of Elia and their children?” _How could someone just leave their kids like that? How could Rhaegar just leave Jon?_

“Rhaegar loved Elia and Aegon and Rhaenys, but his marriage was never one of passion. He married her to make Aerys happy. She was the closest relative Rhaegar had, and it strengthened the alliance with Dorne. Aerys never could look passed her heritage though, and held it against Aegon and Rhaenys until he died. I think that’s why. . . no one ever made sure they were safe. Rhaegar trusted me with his family, and I never. . . I could never leave the Mad King’s side, but I should have done something.”

“But you loved him? You thought he was a good man?”

“Everyone did. He was everything a Prince should be, and the contrast to his father only made the people love him more.”

_Yet he got my family killed_. Rickard, Brandon, and Lyanna all would be alive if Rhaegar didn’t run away from his own wife. _Prince Rhaegar loved his Lady Lyanna, and thousands died for it_. Bran didn’t know if you could love someone and hurt them as Rhaegar had Lyanna.

Bran could look back through the whole of history, watch the Andals and First Men come to Westeros, and even further back to see the Children of the Forest and the Giants rule from the North to Dorne; yet he still didn’t understand how men could be so kind and cruel at the same time. Jaime had pushed him off the tower for seeing a crime _Jaime_ was committing – all Bran had done was be a child! – but he was also the man who saved King’s Landing. And Brienne of Tarth knew him better than anyone else; he had saved her from rapers and murderers. Jaime Lannister had saved as many lives as he’d taken. He had avenged Bran’s uncle and grandfather. But he had also pushed Bran out of the Broken Tower, meaning to kill him. When Brienne looked at Jaime, she saw the man who lost his hand for her; but all Bran could see was the monster.

“Bran?” Jaime's hushed voice broke the silence.

“What?”

“Is there anything I could ever do? To fix what I. . . to make what I did right somehow?” Guilt was written all over his face.

“I think you already know the answer.” The good that came from Bran’s fall, finding Jojen and Meera and the Three Eyed Raven, were all things Bran had done for himself. He owed Jaime nothing. “But you can keep going. You came North to help us. You can never right the wrong you did to me, but you can do right by everyone else.” Bran had felt it strongly in the Great Hall, and he felt it again now.

Jaime Lannister could do the right thing; _he had to_. Jaime Lannister needed to live.


	11. JAIME I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime reunites with Brienne

He left Brandon Stark in the Godswood.

He never thought he would see the boy again, after leaving Winterfell so many years before. Perhaps he should have expected it – he was in the Stark ancestral home after all – but the thought of confronting that particular ghost was too much for him. The last several years of his life had brought him face to face with most of the mistakes he’d made, and he had managed to shake them off; but Bran was one he couldn’t escape anymore.

Jaime never expected to share so much with Bran when he went to see him in the Godswood; he had only meant to make an apology and leave the boy alone. But when Bran kept asking him questions, Jaime had no choice but to answer. After all, Jaime owed him an explanation. _You see, I wasn’t born ready to throw little boys off of broken towers. . ._ Was it even possible for Jaime to explain why he had done it that day?

His heart had nearly beat out of his chest when the boy had said _“the things we do for love”_. When he first entered the hall, Jaime had watched him, searching for any sign that he remembered why he fell, but nothing in his eyes gave away the truth until he had said those words.

And Jaime had meant the words when he said them; not love of his children or of the realm or even his own life, but for Cersei. Since he had lost his hand, he had lied to himself a thousand times over, trying to convince himself that he really had meant his love for Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen. What kind of monster pushes a boy off a tower out of love for his sister lover? But no amount of guilt could change the truth of what he’d done; it was written on the boy’s face as Jaime tried to justify himself. The way Bran looked at him made the boy look so like his father, even though his hair and eyes were Tully red and blue; Jaime had seen that same face of judgement before, on the face of Ned Stark as he entered the Throne Room. Except this time, he deserved it.

 _Everyone hates me for my finest act, yet no one will ever know the worst thing I ever did. How ironic_.

Jaime thought his life was gone the moment Bran spoke up, but instead the boy had told the story of how he killed the Mad King – the real story. It almost took the wind out of Jaime to hear the story told by someone else, for everyone to hear, but it seemed far better than losing his head over it. Now everyone would know, the biggest secret of his life suddenly gone. _Perhaps not the biggest secret, sweet sister,_ he thought to himself and laughed. Then he pushed the thought of Cersei out of his mind; he had left her for good this time.

And he was determined to enjoy the next few moments of his life before the world knew he was Jaime Lannister. The few Lords and Ladies in the Great Hall already knew, and slowly the story would spread like, well, wildfire. But for now, he was free to roam the tremendous castle of Winterfell without the glaring looks and jeers that would surely follow (not without reason, of course). Since being a prisoner of the North, Jaime had let his hair grow out and turn grey, and a beard now covered his cheeks. The coat he rode north in was long enough to fall below his wrists and cover the golden hand, and he wore no lion sigil. He looked nothing like Jaime Lannister anymore.

Winterfell’s courtyard was alive with people, some soldiers helping prepare the castle for the fight against the White Walkers, and others just young boys and girls chasing each other around with snow in their hands and hair. The last time Jaime had been here he had come with King Robert’s caravan, yet still that could not compare to the amount of people now in the castle; it looked as if every man woman and child in the North had come to hide behind Winterfell’s walls. _And soon they’ll all hate me_.

“I never thought I’d see you here again.” Jaime recognized the sound of his younger brother. _Maybe all but one will hate me_.

“I never thought I’d be here either,” Jaime replied, “too cold for a lion.”

“Yet here we are, two Lannisters come to fight for Winterfell. I think I just felt our father roll in his grave.” Tyrion laughed until he saw the look on Jaime’s face. The two had seen each other briefly in the Dragon Pit, but the last time they’d spoken in earnest was under the Red Keep. Their father had come up then, too, though Tyrion’s tone had been much harsher. Jaime could never hate Tyrion for killing a man so awful as their father, but Tywin’s death had started a fall that led to Myrcella and Tommen’s death, too. Jaime didn’t blame his brother, but he was reminded of his daughter dying in his arms every time he looked at him. It didn’t help that Tyrion had returned to Westeros hand in hand with the woman who murdered his daughter.

“When I killed him, I never meant for Tommen or Myrcella to die. You know I loved them; I never would have done it if I thought they could get hurt.” Tyrion’s voice had dropped to almost a whisper, and he wrapped his hand around Jaime’s wrist.

“I know.” Jaime looked Tyrion in the eyes to show he really did know. And Jaime was in no position to pass judgement on his brother. _I never would have played father’s game if I knew she would get hurt, I promise_. But that was a secret for another time.

Tyrion took Jaime’s answer as permission to move on. “Cersei truly isn’t riding north? How stupid can she be?”

 _How stupid could you be? How stupid could I have been?_ “She never intended to; it was all just a lie to make your queen turned her eyes north. The Lannister forces are a fraction of what they used to be, and easily outnumbered by Daenerys Targaryen’s Dothraki and Unsullied, and hopelessly so if the Dornish were ever to truly join the fight. The few battles we’ve won against your queen have been more clever than fair, to be honest. Cersei doesn’t think our men could turn the battle one way or the other against the Army of the Dead.”

“So she’s not going to try?”

“While Daenerys is busy fighting them, Cersei is preparing an army of her own in King’s Landing – the Golden Company from Essos, ferried by Euron Greyjoy.”

“She’s willing to risk the entire world, herself included, that the White Walkers will fall before they reach King’s Landing?”

“You should know our sister well enough not to be surprised.” Cersei and Tyrion had gone after each other like animals since Robert died, and long before that, too. “You should’ve known not to trust her.”

“Odd advice coming from you, brother.” Tyrion’s voice betrayed his buried anger. “I truly thought she had taken my words to heart. She said there was a baby. . . or was that a lie as well?”

Jaime’s face must have told Tyrion the truth before his words did. “That part was no lie.” Jaime could barely get the words out. He would have left her after Daenerys Targaryen brought her beast of a dragon down on his men on the Goldroad if Cersei had not been pregnant. The thought of leaving another child with her, as he had so callously done to Tommen and Myrcella, was enough to make his stomach turn. _I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t have a choice._ Jaime didn’t know what would become of Cersei in her war with the Dragon Queen, but he could not stand idly by while men were fighting for his life in the north.

“The Golden Company in the hands of our sister worries me.” Tyrion broke Jaime’s line of thought. “If she has one of the best and largest armies in the world ready to fight for her, the world may end twice.”

“The Dragon Queen?” Jaime didn’t fear his sister and an army of sellswords as much as he feared the queen with two dragons and a debt to settle. “When we met in the Red Keep you swore she wasn’t her father.” At the time, Tyrion didn’t understand the full weight of his words; but now he knew the truth about Aerys and why Jaime had to kill him.

“She’s not. I’ve been by her side since she was the Queen of Meereen, and her Hand since we sailed west. If she were mad, I would know.”

“I almost forgot how arrogant you are.” Jaime quipped.

“Arrogance is not a flaw if it’s deserved.” His brother shot back, before growing serious again. “I won’t lie, sometimes she is quick to anger and cruel to those who oppose her. But she has never sought to hurt innocents, and listens to me. We could have taken the Seven Kingdoms in a day if she wanted to, but instead I convinced her not to unleash them on Westeros. Once Cersei no longer sits the Iron Throne, there will be no reason to fear.”

“But you worry that Cersei could provoke her into something?” Jaime did not like the sound of this.

“If Cersei refuses to yield the city, is it really so wrong for Daenerys to bring her dragons out, as Aegon did before?” Tyrion paused. “She’s not her father. She would never destroy the whole city, only Cersei. She wouldn’t hurt innocent children.”

“And you’re sure?” Jaime asked.

“Yes. _Yes_.”

Jaime was not wholly convinced, but he had no other choice than to trust Tyrion right now; with the dead marching down on Winterfell, they needed two dragons.

It looked to Jaime that Winterfell had done a fairly decent job preparing for the White Walkers. As he and Tyrion had moved slowly from the courtyard to up on the battlements, Jaime had noticed how the walls had been fitted with dragonglass spikes. And looking down on the courtyard from above, there were dozens of large spiked logs covered in shards of dragonglass; probably set up in the hopes that mindless wights would get caught on the points.

Looking down from Winterfell’s inner wall, he didn’t quite know what he was looking at. The moat that was once several feet across and equally deep was now completely emptied of water, and instead filled with logs similar to the ones in the courtyard, except these had no shards of dragonglass. Jaime assumed it was an attempt to trap the wights in some way, but he didn’t fully understand what to make of it.

He was quickly distracted by a familiar voice shouting commands on the field outside Winterfell’s walls. He knew Tyrion was going on about something, but he had lost focus and had no idea what it was. “Tyrion,” he said to get his brother’s attention.

“Yes?”

“I have to go.” He didn’t wait to hear his brother’s snide comment about how rude he was being, and instead Jaime quickly made his way under the portcullis and over the drawbridge leading him through the outer wall of Winterfell and into the open space. From there it wasn’t hard to find her amongst the knights and soldiers; Brienne of Tarth was more than a head taller than any of them.

“Lady Brienne.” It was the only greeting he could think to say.

“Ser Jaime.” She sounded surprised to see him.

“I wanted to thank you for defending me in the Great Hall.”

“I only told the truth.”

“A truth many didn’t want to hear.” Jaime remembered the look in Daenerys Targaryen’s eyes when she first saw him. “Thank you.”

“I never would have found Lady Sansa if you didn’t give me armor and Oathkeeper,” Brienne’s voice sounded strained. “You saved yourself as much as I did by keeping your promise to Lady Catelyn.”

It had been years since Catelyn had let Jaime go under the oath that he bring Sansa and Arya back to her. After he had sent Brienne into the Riverlands and never heard from her again, Jaime had feared the worst; that the Stark girl and Brienne were dead. Seeing her in Riverrun was the happiest Jaime had been since Myrcella had died. “I simply had to give you a sword, you had to search the Riverlands and somehow make your way North.”

“Why did you ride north now? What’s changed?” Brienne said it as equal parts honest question and accusation.

It was a question Jaime had asked himself many times on the road north. Cersei had betrayed and insulted him before, gotten their son killed, lied and cheated on him; and Brienne had tried before to turn his loyalties, on their journey to King’s Landing, at Joffrey’s awful wedding, and again at Riverrun. “I thought I could still do good by Cersei’s side, I tried. And I did; if I hadn’t been there, thousands more would have died in the siege of Riverrun. But I was lying to myself. The things Cersei’s done, that I _let_ her do, out of some sense of. . . of everything we’d lost together.” Jaime paused to collect his thoughts. “When I saw that _thing_ in the Dragon Pit, I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. And seeing you there, with Oathkeeper. . .” Jaime did not know how to end that sentence. _You were everything I wanted to be as a child and never was_. _More a knight than I could ever be_.

“I’m glad you came.” The four words were simple and short, by themselves hardly expressing any emotion at all. But Brienne’s soft blue eyes gave away the truth of the words, as did the quiver in her voice.

Brienne was happy to seem him, and he was happy to see her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm using a bit of book!canon in this chapter, so imagine the Tyrion/Dany conversation from 6x09 never happened, and the only person Jaime has ever told the truth to is Brienne.


	12. JON III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon struggles with the truth of his parentage

Jon clenched his hand nervously as he walked away from Winterfell. Winter had come in earnest, and the wind was whipping against his cheeks and drying his eyes. _I really should have ridden a horse_ , Jon thought to himself, feeling only a little foolish as he trudged through the thick blanket of snow on the ground. He had considered bringing his black mare Apples (Jon had never intended to give her a name – too many of his horses had died in battle for him to get attached again – but she loved the fruit, and would take it so softly from his hands) out with him when he went to see Ghost in the stables. But he had wanted to be alone for what he was going out to do. That seemed properly stupid now, as his hands were shaking and he wrapped his cloak as tightly as he could round his shoulders.

He had been out on this same path only the day before, but today the wind had picked up considerably and ice fell from the sky as well as snow. _The White Walkers are closer now_. Jon had only ever seen a storm like this when he had fought the Night King and his army at Hardhome. Somewhere out there the poor Umbers were trying to make it to Last Hearth and back before the Night King. Jon had no choice but to let the boy go, after all there were old men and children in the castle, but he feared for what would happen to the party they had sent. He had seen how fast the Army of the Dead could move; they never stopped to eat or sleep, nor had to carry any supplies to feed themselves. The Night King had stayed beyond the wall for hundreds, probably even thousands, of years; now that he had crossed it, he would not waste time. At best, Winterfell had a matter of weeks before the Army of the Dead was on them, and at worst only days.

He had hoped to hear word from the Night’s Watch, anything to know exactly where the Night King was or how many wights he now had with him. Winterfell had not heard anything from the Night’s Watch, though, not since the hastily written letter that read:

> _Night’s King on dragon, wall destroyed, army marching south. Will try and make it south first – Tormund Giantsbane_

Jon hoped for the best, but in all likelihood the men of the Night’s Watch were all dead, marching south with the wights instead of against them. And the Night King himself sat on the back of a dragon; Jon had been there to see the javelin rip through Viserion’s chest, and felt the ground shake as he crashed through the ice. In the back of his mind, he had feared that the Night King could raise the dragon as his own creature, but passed it off as more of his endless worrying. The dragonfire had cut through wights like a hot knife through butter, whatever magic the White Walkers had utterly destroyed by that of Valyria; the Night King had made a lucky shot, that was all.

But the resurrection of Viserion kept gnawing on Jon’s mind. If the Night King could kill the dragon and bring him back, maybe it had been more than just a lucky shot. Maybe the wound hadn’t killed Viserion, but the magic of the spear had. If the Night King could master a dragon, did that make his ice more powerful than fire? Jon had seen the dragons tear through hundreds of wights in mere minutes, but they had never tried to kill a White Walker. _No, that isn’t possible_. If the dragons couldn’t kill the Night King, they were all good as dead.

The White Walkers weren’t Jon’s only problem now, either; Jaime Lannister had shown up at Winterfell in the middle of the night. Just the thought made Jon’s head ache; tensions had been high since he had returned to Winterfell with Daenerys Targaryen, and Jaime Lannister arriving was like throwing oil on a fire. Jon’s head was far from clear during the meeting in the Great Hall, but the anger on everyone’s face was hard to miss, especially when it came to Daenerys. Her anger toward the Kingslayer was what Jon feared the most; stirring up tension over the death of the Mad King was sure to bring with it talk of Rickard and Brandon Stark, setting the Northern Lords on edge all over. Brienne’s defense of Jaime had come as a surprise to Jon; he had come to know her quite well, first meeting her when she came with Sansa to Castle Black, and then in the months after she returned from Riverrun. In the time he had ruled as King in the North with Sansa beside him, he had spent hours in the company of Brienne of Tarth; she was Sansa’s closest companion and protector, as well as a highly competent military mind. She had helped them with plans to ready Winterfell against the Army of the Dead, and was going to lead men against the wights when they came. But aside from the knowledge that Jaime had given her Oathkeeper and the means to search for Sansa and Arya, Jon had never heard her speak of Jaime. He would have to ask Sansa about the two of them. _If I can find it in me to speak with her again. . ._

Which led Jon to his biggest problem, and why he was wandering about in feet of snow and ice like a bloody idiot. Daenerys’ dragons were kept not far from Winterfell, and unlike Jon, they had the ability to keep themselves warm in the heavy wind and snow. From the charred bones he found on his path (the dragons must have fed recently if they hadn’t been buried by the snow), Jon gathered he was getting close. The last time Jon had come here, it had been with Drogon and Rhaegal’s mother, someone who could calm them if they didn’t like him; this time he came alone, with no plan if Drogon or Rhaegal decided to eat him. _I’m a Targaryen, I should be able to do this_. That’s what he kept telling himself. Even though Sam had told him and Bran confirmed it, the words did not feel real to Jon. But riding a dragon was something real and tangible, something that made it seem possible.

He had already ridden a dragon just the day before, but that was before he’d known. Daenerys had told him that Targaryens hadn’t been the only ones capable of riding dragons, that sheepherders and peasants had too. When Jon had done it, he didn’t realize what he was doing. This time he would be trying, looking for anything that made Rhaegar Targaryen feel like his father.

_Rhaegal._ For the first time it occurred to him that the green dragon was named after his father; Daenerys must have named him for the brother she had lost. _The father that I lost_. It struck Jon as strange that he had never been closer to Daenerys, yet felt further from her than he ever had. Suddenly they were connected through hundreds, maybe even thousands, of years of family history. It had been Jon’s ancestors as well as hers that conquered Westeros on the Field of Fire, who fought and killed each other in the Dance of Dragons, and then again in the Blackfyre Rebellions. _It was my grandfather who killed my grandfather_. Jon had almost as much right as Daenerys to want Jaime Lannister dead, on account of being King Aerys II’s grandson. An entire family and history he never knew he had was suddenly his to claim. He could never think of himself as a Stark, could never bring himself to steal Winterfell out from Robb, Bran, Sansa, or Arya; even as King in the North, when Sansa had offered him the name and the castle, he swore he would always keep his bastard name. He wasn’t really a bastard, though. If Jon decided to use his new lineage, he could _rightfully_ claim all that was _rightfully_ his; the Red Keep, King’s Landing, the Seven Kingdoms, the whole of bloody Westeros was his birthright. Jon was a trueborn son, a Prince and a King.

But Daenerys Targaryen would not see it that way. She had lived years of her life as the last of the Targaryens, the only heir to the throne, the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Jon did not think she would take kindly to him being ahead of her in the line of succession, and he had seen her when she did not take kindly to something; more specifically, he had seen her _dragons_. The night before, alone with Sam and Bran, Jon had sworn them both to secrecy; his first instinct after Sam had told him the truth was to cover it up, like his father - Ned Stark - had, to hide the truth from everyone forever. But after a night’s sleep, doubt had crept into his mind; it was a secret Lyanna swore Ned to keep, and he had taken it to the grave with him. Yet Jon still found out, after his father had been dead for years; Bran had learned through his visions, Sam had the help of diaries at the Citadel, and somewhere Howland Read sat in Greywater Watch with his secret. Was it even possible to keep this secret? Varys, the Master of Whispers, was somewhere in Winterfell always listening, and Jon hadn’t even thought to ask Sam what came of the High Septon’s diary, which would need to be burned if Sam had brought it with him. And Sam himself worried Jon, he would never give up the secret intentionally, but Jon’s friend was quick to panic and choke on his words; how could Jon begrudge him if he accidentally let slip the truth?

There was too many ways his secret could escape; he would have to tell Daenerys Targaryen the truth. If Jon was sure of one thing, it was that Daenerys finding out his true parentage from someone else would make the situation infinitely worse. But there was no way for him to tell her without also making things worse. No matter how Jon looked at the situation, his hands were tied. _It has to be after we defeat the Night King_. Jon had decided that was the only time it could possibly go over well. If he told her before, he risked Daenerys abandoning the fight, especially with the word of Cersei’s betrayal in the south. At least if she took the news badly after the war for the dawn, the whole of Westeros would not be at risk, and few enough people knew Jon’s secret that he was not too worried it would get around to Daenerys before the battle was fought. _And maybe we’ll all be dead before then; wouldn’t that be nice?_ Jon thought to himself.

A shrieking cry pulled Jon from his thoughts. He was only a stone’s throw from the dragons now, and could see them fighting over what looked to be the carcass of a deer. Drogon growled and snapped at Rhaegal’s neck, trying to rip the bones away from his brother. At first Rhaegal cowered and dropped the deer, before snapping back at Drogon’s face. Jon feared the two would break into a real fight, and he could not imagine what he would do to stop that. But the two dragons abruptly stopped their squabbling when they caught sight of Jon. He slowed his steps and walked calmly toward Rhaegal, keeping a close eye on what Drogon was doing to his left. Unlike the first and second time he saw the dragons, this time they seemed completely at ease with him. Drogon took several steps back and seemed to lay down in the snow, as if disinterested. Rhaegal leaned forward, reaching his nose out toward Jon like he wanted to be pet. In return, Jon reached his hand out and ran it across Rhaegal’s nostrils and rubbed his cheeks. After a moment, Jon carefully walked down the dragon’s neck and toward his shoulder; this time Rhaegal knew what he wanted, and lowered his shoulder to the ground for Jon to step on.

Jon himself was not quite sure what he was looking for. He wanted to feel any connection at all to his father Rhaegar. When Sam had told him, it had nearly taken the wind out of him, and he had gotten sick on the floor of Winterfell’s crypts. But after he gathered himself and spoke to Bran, as he lay in bed sleeplessly tossing and turning, half of the truth began to make sense to him. Jon had always dreamt of having a mother like Lyanna Stark, highborn and beautiful, kind and brave, and who loved him. And he had always felt a connection to the Starks, which he thought came from his father Ned, but also came to him through his mother. Before Jon had gone to the stables to see Ghost, he had gone back down to see her statue in the crypts; when he looked at Lyanna’s statue, the pain in his chest came from everything he’d lost. He desperately wanted to know more about her, to know why she had run off with Rhaegar Targaryen, but also he wanted to know the small things; _what did she love? What made her laugh? What was her favorite story? Favorite song? What was she like? What would she have named me, if Rhaegar hadn’t chosen?_ Jon felt connected to Lyanna, as if she really had been his mother, even if he never got to know her.

But with Rhaegar it was different. Jon felt no more a Targaryen now than he had before he knew the truth. And was being a Targaryen even something he wanted? They had killed his grandfather and uncle, causing the rebellion Ned fought so hard to win. The legacy of the Starks was of deposing the tyrant Mad King, _that’s_ what Jon wanted his family to be. Yet now he was the grandson of the same Mad King, descendant of Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel; hardly a family to be proud of compared to Bran the Builder. Then there was the truth of his relation to Daenerys, that she was actually his aunt by blood, many times over. _Oh gods_ was all Jon could ever think about it, horrified at the mistake he’d made. _I didn’t know, I couldn’t have known. . ._

But a part of him was still hopeful; even though his gut knew Daenerys would not take well to him being Rhaegar’s son, a part of his mind had leapt onto a different ending. If he swore to her that he would never press his claim, that he would be content in the North as Warden, or even nothing if she wanted to strip him of his titles, and if he still agreed to send the Northern forces to King’s Landing for her, maybe Daenerys Targaryen would let him be in Winterfell. The close relation they shared would give him reason to break their engagement off – she had been raised that way, but must understand that Jon had not – and Jon could chase after. . . He wouldn’t let himself finish the thought. _Even if she is not your sister, she is still your father’s daughter_. Jon could feel the watchful eyes of Ned Stark on him whenever he thought of her. _It can never be_.

All of those thoughts raced through his mind as he placed himself firmly on Rhaegal’s shoulders, clenching his eyes shut and taking in a deep breath. With one tremendous beat of his wings, the dragon had launched himself into the air. The cold did not bite into Jon’s skin so much anymore, he could hardly hear the rushing of the wind or anything else, he could see clearer than before and the colors seemed somehow brighter, and everything smelled so much sharper. As soon as it happened, Jon knew that’s why he had wanted to ride Rhaegal; to see if it felt the same as Ghost.

Every time Jon was around the direwolf, it was like they connected somehow. He could hear, smell, and taste as well as Ghost, and the world looked and felt just slightly different. In his dreams, Jon could actually be in the direwolf’s mind, seeing through his eyes and thinking his thoughts; and sometimes if he really tried, Jon thought he could do it waking, too. That physical connection he had to Ghost, whose eyes and fur reminded him so much of a weirwood, always anchored Jon in the North. He had climbed onto Rhaegal’s back hoping for just a glimpse of that same feeling, a sense of belonging that meant he could be Jon Targaryen (he certainly wasn’t _Aegon_ Targaryen).

And he _did_ feel it. Not as strong a bond as he had with Ghost, not as clear a connection or understanding, but it was _something_. There was something wholly cathartic about flying above the mountains and cliffs, leaving all of his problems on the ground. He wasn’t sure of it on his first ride, but now Jon was sure that Rhaegal somehow knew where he wanted to go. It hardly took any commands for Jon to fly higher or lower, change directions, and go slower or faster. Something was connecting him and Rhaegal, and now he knew what it was.

Jon would _always_ be a Stark, even if he would never take the name. They were the family that raised and loved him, gave him a home when the Targaryens never could. He had grown up with them, loved and lost with them. Eddard Stark would always be his father. And Jon still did not know how to feel about everything that had happened between the Starks and Targaryens during Robert’s Rebellion; he knew the Mad King was to blame, but not where that left him in the middle. And he was still unsure how to feel about Rhaegar Targaryen and all the things he had done, especially to Lyanna.

But maybe a piece of Jon could in some way accept that he was a Targaryen.


	13. SANSA III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa speaks with Daenerys Targaryen

She sat in Winterfell’s library, across the table from Lord Yohn Royce. Sansa preferred to take her meetings here instead of in her quarters; all of the halls and solars were being used by the people of the North who had retreated to Winterfell, except for the Great Hall, which Sansa found too large and intimidating. The library was smaller and always quiet, and between meetings she could take books off the shelf and read the stories she had loved as a child. It had been years since she truly had the time to sit down and enjoy the stories, between her role as Lady of Winterfell and the preparations she constantly had to keep up with for the battle against the dead, Sansa hardly had any time to herself anymore. And when she did, she usually used the time to return letters from various Lords and Ladies from the Riverlands or Stormlands, and send off her own letters to the Westerlands and Dorne.

 Earlier in the day, she had met with men from the armory to sort out how many men could be properly armored and how many dragonglass blades they had been able to make, then she had met with the kitchen workers to discuss food rations, the stables to see how many mounted knights they could or should put on the field, and the workers who had been building trebuchets and other siege weapons for the battle. Now she and Lord Royce were considering the best time and way to close the gates. Sansa knew there was still families making their way toward Winterfell, and didn’t want to shut the gates too soon, but needed to give the men enough time to seal the gates. All of the entrances to Winterfell were going to be closed off, with the exception of the East Gate, which would allow the few men who were going to be outside the gate a way to retreat if they had to. The other gates were going to be iced over and blockaded to make sure they couldn’t be easily broken through.

Before he had left for Dragonstone, Jon was always here with her to help make the decisions for Winterfell. But in the time he had been back, he seemed so distracted; it had been three days since Jaime Lannister had arrived, and seeing Jon in the Great Hall that morning was the last time Sansa had properly seen him. Since then, he hadn’t met her in the library as he used to so they could discuss and plan the day’s issues, and she hardly saw him around the courtyards or battlements. A part of Sansa worried that he was avoiding her; their last conversation had been contentious, and they had never resolved it. Sansa had thought about approaching him herself, but something about the way he had looked that day in the Great Hall made her think better of it; whatever Jon was going through, he needed to do it himself.

“We’ll close the gates tomorrow.” Sansa told Lord Royce. She had hoped to receive another raven from Tormund or one of the brothers of the Night’s Watch, anything to let them know how close the Army of the Dead were, but she feared they were all dead. She couldn’t risk leaving the gates open too long and having the Night King attack before they had sealed them. And another day should be enough time for the few remaining men, women, and children to make it within the walls.

“I’ll see to it personally, my lady.” Lord Royce replied.

“Was there any other matters we needed to see to?” Sansa did not want to forget anything, but her head was starting to bother her after all the men she had met with, and more than anything she wanted to close her eyes by the fire in her solar and try to stop worrying.

“No, my lady, I believe that was-” Royce was interrupted by the heavy door to the library creaking open, as Daenerys Targaryen entered the room.

Sansa tried to hide her reaction, which was both surprised and dismayed. She hadn’t seen Daenerys since Jaime had arrived either, but Sansa knew the tension was growing between them. She had seen the looks Daenerys had shot at her when she decided Jaime should be allowed to stay in Winterfell, and the way Daenerys had rushed from the Great Hall without even a word. And in the few days they had been here, the dragon queen’s army was not exactly fitting in; the Unsullied had been perfect guests and seemed to be making friends with the Northmen, but several men had come to Sansa with complaints of the Dothraki, and Daenerys had shown no interest in helping ease the tensions. Sansa knew there would be problems, with so many strangers trapped in an overcrowded castle, all preparing for the end of the world, but still it made her nervous. But Sansa could not mention any of that to Daenerys, and instead stood from her seat, forced a smile, and greeted her.

“Lady Sansa,” Daenerys said in return, “I was hoping we could speak about certain matters, alone.” Her eyes looked over to Yohn Royce then quickly back to Sansa.

“Yes, of course. Lord Royce and I had just finished our discussion.”

Royce seemed to understand, quickly standing from the table and leaving the library. When he had gone, Daenerys walked forward to take a seat at the table, and Sansa did the same.

“What matter was it you wanted to speak about?” Sansa asked, playing naïve.

“Tell me if I speak out of turn, but there seems to be a rift between us.” Daenerys paused, clearly trying to choose her words carefully. “I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, is all.”

“I’ve certainly meant no offense, your grace.” Sansa was careful to use Daenerys’ correct title; even if Sansa did not see her as the Queen of the North, she did have a claim to the other kingdoms of Westeros. “I would have tried to speak with you privately sooner, but I’ve been very busy lately, trying to finish the preparations for the battle against the dead.”

“Of course,” Daenerys said, “I just wanted us to be able to clear the air. I know a lot has happened in a very short amount of time, and I understand if it takes the Lords of the North time to see me as their Queen.”

Sansa’s smile dropped ever so slightly. “When Jon left, he was going to get allies, not lose our independence.” She tried to keep her tone as calm as possible. “We hardly expected to lose our King, much less to. . . thousands of Northmen died to win our independence back from the Iron Throne.”

“Against Cersei Lannister, and her pawns Roose and Ramsay Bolton. I’m not her, I promise you.” Daenerys still sounded polite enough, but the careful kindness had fallen away.

“The Lannisters and Boltons are not the only ones to hurt the North.” _The Targaryens have killed more Starks than any of them_. “When we took Winterfell back, the Lords and Ladies never wanted to kneel again.”

“The North has been one of the Seven Kingdoms since Torrhen Stark kneeled to Aegon Targaryen, kneeled to the _Iron Throne_. The North has followed the throne for hundreds of years.”

“Until King Aerys II burned Rickard and Brandon Stark alive.” Sansa knew she was pushing too far, but she would not give up Northern Independence easily.

“I am not my father.” Daenerys hesitated before continuing, “I know he wronged your family, and you have reason to mistrust me. But I rode North for your brother; he came to know me quite well on Dragonstone, and chose to bend the knee. Don’t you trust your brother?”

Sansa was finding it increasingly difficult to be nice. “I’m sure Jon did what he thought was best, and I’m not trying to argue he was wrong. But the people of the North are not as willing to kneel as the other Kingdoms, especially not after they just won it back.”

“But they will kneel.”

“And what of the Iron Islands? The ravens I have received from Yara Greyjoy proclaim a free and independent Kingdom.”

“When Yara Greyjoy came to me in Meereen, I needed a fleet to cross the Narrow Sea. In exchange for their many ships, the Iron Islands were granted their freedom.” Daenerys seemed to know where Sansa was taking the conversation, and her face had grown red.

“No such arrangement was possible for the North? Jon has promised our forces to helping you take King’s Landing from Cersei Lannister; is that not enough?”

“Any help the North can give me after we defeat the Army of the Dead is to return the kindness I showed you by riding North. My Unsullied, Dothraki, and dragons are of more use to the North right now than the North could be to me.”

“The White Walkers are not going to stop at Moat Cailin if Winterfall falls.” Sansa’s anger was starting to come through in her voice. “The Army of the Dead is coming for everyone, not just the North. But unlike the other Kingdoms, we’re going to lose almost everything in the fighting. I understand that your men are going to give their lives to help defend the North, but it is not just the North they are defending. And unlike the men of the North, they can go back south to live. Countless castles, keeps, and homes are going to be destroyed north of here; thousands of farmers have been displaced from their fields and crops, and whatever food remains to us is going to be nearly run dry feeding everyone at Winterfell.” _Or did you forget that you brought no food for your men?_ “No one is giving more to protect the Seven Kingdoms than the men of the North.” _And we shouldn’t have to kneel for it_.

“I came here to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms; the North makes up more than half of the land that rightfully belongs to me. Jon already bent the knee and gave up his crown; the North is mine.”

Before Sansa could answer, Lord Royce reentered the room. “Lady Sansa, Queen Daenerys, I’m very sorry to interrupt.”

“What is it?” Sansa asked him, worried something had happened.

“A group of men have arrived, saying they came from White Harbor. When we let them through the gate, one of the men asked to speak with you, Lady Sansa.”

“Speak with me?” She struggled to think of who it could be. “Of course, bring him here.”

Lord Royce left the room to quickly return with the man he had spoke of, leading him into the library. Sansa’s breath caught in her throat when she saw him, and her eyes immediately welled with tears. _“Theon!”_ She nearly jumped from her seat and raced over to him, trying her best to hug him gently (his scars had never healed well) even though she wanted to throw herself into his arms. As she wrapped her arms around him, Sansa felt Theon’s arms hold tightly against her back, and she leaned her head into his shoulder. They stayed like that until Sansa remembered everyone else was still in the room, and she let go of Theon and walked several paces back. Daenerys had stood from her seat and for some reason seemed dismayed.

“Your Grace,” Theon greeted Daenerys, once he realized she was in the room.

“I didn’t expect to see you here, after you had gone back to King’s Landing to free Yara. Did you? Is she alright?” Daenerys replied.

“Yara sailed the Iron Fleet back to the Iron Islands, except for the boat she allowed me to sail to White Harbor. She feared our fleet would be attacked or broken by storms if she tried to bring all of our ships north. She’s going to take our home back from Euron Greyjoy, in your name.” Theon’s voice always cracked and stuttered when he spoke to someone above him, a leftover wound from his time with Ramsay Bolton.

“And you did not go with her?” Daenerys asked.

Theon’s glance met with Sansa’s. “I came to Winterfell because I want to fight for you, Lady Sansa.”

She felt her tears spill over and run down her cheeks, and before she knew what she was doing she was hugging him again. “Thank you.” Sansa said through the tears. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I was always coming home, Sansa, always.”

“If you will excuse me, I should go.” Sansa heard Daenerys say behind her.

Sansa ran the sleeves of her dress across her cheeks and took a deep breath. “Yes, of course, I’m sorry.”

Daenerys walked toward the door, and Lord Royce seemed to understand too and followed her out of the library.

“I haven’t seen you in years! How have you been?” Sansa didn’t even know where to begin catching up. She hadn’t seen Theon since he had jumped from Winterfell’s walls with her, and the two had travelled miles and miles to the north with Brienne and Podrick. Then he had turned back south, to find a ship to take him to the Iron Islands. He said he wanted to find his sister Yara, and try to apologize for the mistakes he’d made, but Sansa feared he had turned back to avoid seeing Jon Snow at the Wall. Back then Sansa hadn’t known how Jon would react, either; she had not seen him since she was just a girl, desperate to go to King’s Landing. She knew Jon better than anyone now, though, and knew how kind and forgiving he could be.

“I think finding Yara was good for me, but I missed you and Bran and Arya so much.”

“I missed you so much, too.” Sansa and Theon shared something that no one else did. Even though Sansa had tried to move on, and found someone in Jon who was always there to comfort her, she still had days and nights when she wished someone was there who knew what it had been like. Living in Winterfell, she would pass by rooms or places, see something or smell something, and she would relive moments with Ramsay all over. But Winterfell was _her_ home, and she was not going to leave because a monster had taken it. Sansa was determined to make new memories to replace the bad.

Her and Theon talked for what must have been hours. Sansa told him everything; how she had arrived at Castle Black and learned that Jon had died and come back (apparently Theon had seen Jon on Dragonstone, she learned), how they had brought the Wildlings south with Northern Lords and Ladies to take back Winterfell and won the Battle of the Bastards, Jon being named King in the North, the death of Littlefinger, and the arrival of Daenerys Targaryen. Then Theon told her everything that had happened to him; getting to the Iron Islands after his father died, Euron Greyjoy declaring himself King, him and Yara sailing across the Narrow Sea to Meereen and pledging their fleet to Daenerys (Sansa already knew this part of the story), how Yara had been taken by Euron and Cersei, and how he had gotten her back.

Sansa had forgotten just how much comfort there was in talking to someone who had been in Winterfell with Ramsay, someone who knew and understood what she had been through. She knew that Jon, Arya, or Bran would sit and listen as long as she needed, and offer her comfort when she was finished; they would all try their best to make her feel better. And she loved them for that, and had used that kindness more than once. But the ease in which the conversation came with Theon, how she didn’t have to explain anything because he already knew, was always going to be something just the two of them shared. They had gone to hell together, and they had escaped together, too.


	14. DAENERYS II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys speaks to Samwell Tarly

Sitting alone in her solar, Daenerys tossed the letter into the fire. Jon had signed it _Warden of the North_ , the day he had bent the knee and Daenerys became Queen of the North; well, she had _always_ been Queen of the North, but that was the day the people were supposed to acknowledge her as such. She had kept it, even after he had sent letters off to Winterfell, and even when he declared his allegiance to her in front of Cersei Lannister in the Dragonpit; it had meant something to her, and she thought it would mean something to the North. _Does the word of their King mean nothing to them?_ All Daenerys had found in the North was ungrateful Lords and Ladies, too stuck in the past to see she was going to save them. Even Jon’s sister Sansa seemed unwilling to accept that Jon had bent his crown away; Dany had gone to speak with her earlier, to discuss matters of the North’s independence. Sansa had seemed completely unwilling to consider the North as one of the Seven Kingdoms it had been for hundreds of years. Then Theon Greyjoy had arrived in Winterfell, which Dany had been excited for, at first. The Greyjoys had been with her before she sailed the Narrow Sea, all the way back in Essos, and had fought with her against Cersei Lannister before their ships had been attacked by Euron. Yara was one of her closest allies, and Daenerys trusted them to always side with her.

 

Until she saw the look Theon Greyjoy had on his face when he saw Sansa Stark. It was a look Daenerys had seen on thousands of faces when she freed Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen. The Unsullied and Dothraki always looked at her that way. But the people of Westeros never did; not when she anchored her ships and took back Dragonstone for her family, or when she defeated the Lannister forces and offered the men freedom. They always looked at her as if she had come to hurt them, even when she was saving them. Though the look on Theon’s face had not been exactly the same; it almost made Daenerys question if Sansa Stark and Theon Greyjoy had been more than close. But Daenerys had seen _that_ look, in the eyes of Daario Naharis, and she knew that wasn’t it either. Regardless, Dany knew that Theon’s heart belonged to the Starks; and if the Greyjoys ever had to choose between her and the North, she worried Theon would be enough to push Yara away from her.

_Jon would never let that happen_. Or would he? Before, when they had been on Dragonstone together, Daenerys had trusted him completely; she had gone beyond the Wall to save him, and he had trusted her with the North. And even though she tried not to, Daenerys loved him. She had been with men before; first when she had fallen for Khal Drogo, and then her affair with Daario. But the more time that passed, the more Dany had come to realize what she was to Drogo; just a thing, not a real person. And even though Daario had loved her more than anyone, she could never feel the same about him. Jon was different. He had been a King in his own right, a leader and commander to the people in the North; then he gave it all away for her. And on the sail from Dragonstone to Winterfell, he had proved that he loved her too.

But ever since they had arrived, Jon had been so distant; Dany had been in Winterfell four days and only spoken to Jon once, on the day they arrived. Ever since she had let him ride Rhaegal, it seemed as if he was going out of his way to avoid seeing her. And even when she could make him see her, he only ever talked about meaningless details and left as quickly as possible. Worst of all, Jon had hardly even tried to defend her in front of his people; he had given a half-hearted speech the first day, and since then he hardly even seemed to care. The morning Jaime Lannister had shown up, Jon had taken Sansa’s side without even listening to her.

Of course, the worst part of that whole meeting had been Jaime Lannister himself. Ser Barristan and Tyrion had told her about her father, the truth of what he had done to Rickard and Brandon Stark; Dany knew her father wasn’t a good man. But the things Jaime Lannister said about him, that he wanted to burn King’s Landing to the ground, how he had killed his Hand when the man refused, they _had_ to be lies. Yet. . .

_"Let him be king over charred bones and cooked meat. . . Let him be the king of ashes."_

The words kept echoing in her mind. She had heard them in the House of the Undying, when she had seen the man sitting on the Iron Throne, screaming and laughing. That was almost word for word what Jaime Lannister said, too, claiming he had heard it from her father. But if he hadn’t heard it from her father, how could he have known? The more the memory ran through Dany’s head, of the blond man on the Iron Throne, she realized that he did look like her; his hair was her exact shade, and his eyes had been brilliantly violet, with the high cheekbones and other-worldly features of Old Valyria. Jaime Lannister must have been telling the truth.

But that didn’t mean she had to forgive him; he had sworn an oath to her father, to die protecting him, and instead he slit his throat and let him drown in his own blood. And even if Jaime was honest about her father, his sister had lied about everything. Cersei was never going to send her forces North, or even allow a truce while Dany dedicated her army to saving the world against the Army of the Dead. Everything Dany had done to make the peace, going beyond the wall to save Jon and capture a wight, losing Viserion to the Night King, not using her dragons against King’s Landing or the people, all of it was for nothing. _I should have burned the Red Keep with Cersei inside the day I landed on Dragonstone_. Nothing good had come from waiting. Tyrion had said the people would love her, they would see she was freeing them from a tyrant, that all she had to do was wait, keep her dragons on Dragonstone. But she had done everything right, and still they acted like she wasn’t their Queen.

“Khaleesi?” She heard over a gentle knock on the door.

“Come in.” Only Ser Jorah called her by _khaleesi_ , and she wanted to see her bear.

“I heard you met with Lady Stark.”

“From Tyrion?” He was the only one that could have told Jorah. “He’s always telling everyone my secrets now, isn’t he?” Dany’s anger was spilling out into her voice.

“That doesn’t matter, Tyrion meant no ill will when he told me. I just wanted to ask you, to see how your conversation went.” Jorah answered, trying to calm her; but his condescending tone only made her angrier, as did the reminder of Sansa’s stubbornness.

“It went as well as every other meeting I’ve had in the North. None of them are even trying to see me as their Queen, and Jon is off doing gods know what every single day! Nevermind that I brought an entire army and two dragons when I had no reason to!”

“If I may make a suggestion-”

Dany interrupted him. “What could you say to help me with these insufferable people?”

“Your Grace, you forget I was born here.” Jorah was angry now, too. “The Lords and Ladies you speak of were my childhood friends, their fathers were friends to mine and we often visited their castles. I may have left in disgrace, but before I did I knew these people well. House Mormont means something here, as you learned when my cousin Lyanna was allowed to speak in the Great Hall when you first arrived.”

“Allowed to speak against me, you mean? But please continue.”

“I know the North, Your Grace. They’re a stubborn people, and set in their ways. They don’t like to bend, much less their knees.” Jorah paused, as if to choose his words carefully. “They may seem insufferable to you, but be patient with them and they’ll come to see you for what you are.”

_That’s what Jon said_ , Dany thought to herself, _but I think I’ve already come to see them for what_ they _are._ “I will try, Jorah, I agreed to fight for them after all. I’m going to keep my word, even if they seem unable to.”

“And if I may make one more suggestion.”

“Yes?” Dany asked.

“I think you should speak with Samwell, the training Maester in Winterfell. I met him at the Citadel, when I was left to die by the other Maesters. But Sam risked his life to help me; without him I would have died of Greyscale, and never been able to come back to you. While we were together, I told him of you and your dragons, of how many lives you had saved in Essos.”

“And how will this Maester help me? I thought they were sworn to the castle, not the Lord. Not that a friend would be unwelcome, but I need more than that right now, Jorah.”

“He is a friend to Jon Snow, Your Grace. Without Sam, Jon never would have known there was Dragonglass on Dragonstone, and never would have gone south to meet you. He is the man’s best friend, and could help influence him in your favor if Jon’s other family disagrees.”

Daenerys had no choice but to agree with Jorah. “And where is this Maester?”

She found him in the Winterfell’s library, his nose deep inside a book that looked a thousand years old. Dany had been here only a few hours before, when she had argued with Sansa. _Hopefully this conversation goes better_ , she thought to herself as she approached Sam’s table.

Her footsteps creaking across the old wood caught his attention, and he tilted his head upward to see who it was. “Daenerys!” He said, jumping up from his seat. “I mean, _your grace_.” He emphasized the words.

“And you’re Maester Samwell, I’ve heard of you from Ser Jorah Mormont. He had quite nice things to say about you.”

“I’m sure he was just being polite.” Sam spoke every word as if he was unsure.

“He says you saved his life.”

“Anyone could have, your grace. I was only doing what everyone else should have.”

“Even if that were true, I would still be forever in your debt. Ser Jorah is one of my highest advisors, and one of my oldest friends. Anything you ask for is yours.”

“Well, I. . . If you’re offering. . . When I left the Citadel, the Maesters and I. . . We didn’t exactly part on the best of terms.”

“And?”

“Well I may have stolen, borrowed really, a few books, and a diary.” At that, Sam’s face turned beet red. Dany had to restrain a laugh, amused at the innocence of his request.

“Consider yourself a free man, Samwell. As Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, I hereby pardon you.”

“I wasn’t quite finished,” he said, clearly embarrassed. “I may have also _borrowed_ a sword from my father. We didn’t part on the best of terms, either, and he’s much more like to want me hung than the old Maesters at the Citadel.”

“Who is this man who would have his own son hung over a sword?”

“Well it isn’t just the sword he hates me over.” Samwell answered. “Randyll Tarly is a hard man, and I could never be the son he wanted. That’s why I took the black.”

“ _Randyll Tarly_ was your father?” _Why didn’t Ser Jorah warn me?_

“Did you know him?” Samwell asked.

“I knew him, very briefly.” Daenerys had no idea how she was going to tell him what had happened. “He had pledged the forces of Highgarden to Cersei Lannister, and was marching south with all the gold and grain of the Reach, with Jaime Lannister. I couldn’t let them take it all to King’s Landing, so on the Goldroad I laid waste to their army. Afterward, I had taken prisoners. I gave them a choice; they all had a _choice_. . . but your father was among them, and he refused to bend the knee and swear allegiance to me.”

Sam’s face fell instantly. “My father is dead?”

“Yes.”

“And what of my mother? Is my family still at Hornhill, or was it taken from them? What of my sister and brother?”

“Your brother was on the field that day, and stood with your father.”

“Dickon is dead?” Now tears were beginning to stream down his face. _“My brother is dead?”_

“I’m sorry for your loss. . . But I gave them a choice. It was war, and I had no other choice. But I gave them a choice.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Sam paused to wipe the tears from his cheeks, “I think I should be going.” He rushed from the table and out the door.

_That could not possibly have gone worse_ , Daenerys thought, standing dismayed in Winterfell’s library for the second time that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again I mixed book and show canon a bit, so this version of Dany had the HotU visions from the books.


	15. JON IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Bran visit the past

“And this will work?” Jon asked, walking toward the Godswood, pushing Bran in front of him.

“I told you, I’m not sure,” Bran replied, “but I think it’s worth trying.”

Jon could tell he was starting to annoy his brother; Bran had been patient with him as he tried to learn more about his parents, but what they were going to do today was different. Him and Bran had been spending almost every day together in the Godswood; since Bran was one of the only people who knew Jon’s secret, he was almost the only person Jon felt comfortable talking to. He had yet to work up his courage enough to speak to Arya, and _especially_ not Sansa. And then there was the matter of Daenerys; Jon had tried many times to hold a conversation with her, to pretend everything was normal so she wouldn’t grow suspicious of him, but he found it nearly impossible. Every time she mentioned her family and history, or tried to touch Jon as she had before, he felt his ears and cheeks go bright red, and his stomach always betrayed him. The thought of what they had done. . . _I didn’t know, I didn’t know!_ Jon knew he could keep a secret, and even live a lie, as he had done with Ygritte for so long, and was doing to Daenerys now, but this was different. It wasn’t just Jon’s secret; the truth of his parents would change how people saw Rhaegar and Lyanna, Ned and Robert, and would even change how people saw Robert’s Rebellion. It was too big for Jon to pretend; the secret ate away at his conscious every day. Because of that, he found his talks with Bran incredibly comforting; being able to talk with someone who already knew the truth made Jon feel as if he wasn’t lying anymore.

That wasn’t the only thing Bran offered him, though. His brother could use the weirwoods to see back into the past, and watch as Rhaegar or Lyanna lived and made their choices. The visions hadn’t been working as easily as Bran had thought they would though; when he tried to look through history for Rhaegar and Lyanna, Bran could hardly find any memories at all, and found it hard to stay in them when he did. Bran said he couldn’t be sure why, but that it felt as if the memories themselves were fighting against him, as if Rhaegar and Lyanna didn’t want anyone to see or know what had happened; people had taken the secret to their graves, and it seemed they held onto it still.

While Jon knew that was a part of it, he also thought Bran’s exhaustion was, too. His brother had hardly been sleeping, instead warging through the night trying to search for the Night King and his army. But he was always met with a fierce storm, and a fog so thick that Bran’s ravens couldn’t see more than a foot in front of them. Jon had planned to send scouts out from Winterfell, to watch for the Army of the Dead and set fires to warn Winterfell, but the storm north of the castle had gotten so bad that Jon knew he would only be sending the men out to their deaths. Jon also knew his brother was trying to see the Night King’s past, to see more of the magic the Children of the Forest had used to create him and how the First Men had pushed him back beyond the wall during the Long Night.

“The Night King doesn’t want me to see,” Bran had told him, coming out of one of his visions. The color had drained from his face, and he looked as if he hadn’t eaten or drank for days. After that, Jon had tried to talk Bran out of trying, but his brother wouldn’t stop. “I know him more than anyone. I’ve seen him, Jon, he touched me. He wants me for something, and I need to know.”

At first, when Bran had told him what he planned today, Jon had said no. He worried Bran would overwork himself, and didn’t know what kind of consequence that could have. But Bran insisted, and Jon’s own curiosity had given in as well. He so badly wanted to know his mother, to know why she had run off with Rhaegar.

“What do we do now?” Jon asked Bran once they were in the Godswood.

“Take these,” Bran said as he handed Jon a bowl and masher. Following Bran’s guide, Jon ripped leaves from the branches of the weirwood, mashing them together with fresh fallen snow. When he was done, the leaves and snow had mixed together to form a sort of paste, white with streaks of red weirwood sap running through.

“I’m supposed to eat this?” Jon trusted his brother, but looking down at the bowl, he had never felt less hungry.

“At first you won’t like it, but the more you eat the more it tastes like the best thing you’ve ever tasted; I promise.” Bran said.

Picking at it with his fingers, Jon brought the first bite to his mouth. It tasted earthy, like dirt and snow and leaves, but also blood; the sap of the weirwood had the same thick, metallic taste that Jon had only smelled before, on the battlefield when men were dying. He almost threw up his breakfast, but continued to force the weirwood paste down. And Bran was right; the more he ate, the more the taste changed to his tongue. By the last bite, Jon swore it tasted like the stew Old Nan used to make for him and Robb when they were young.

“Is something supposed to happen now? Everything feels the same.”

“When you slip into Ghost’s mind, do you remember how that feels?” Bran asked him in return.

“Like I’m leaving my own body and going into his.” Jon had plenty of dreams like that, but had only managed to do it waking very few times.

“The paste will help you do that with the trees.” Bran grabbed his hand and held it tightly. “Close your eyes and slip out of your skin, let yourself go into the trees. I’m going to try and go with you, to pull you towards the memories we want to see.”

Jon listened to Bran, shutting his eyes and trying to lose himself into the weirwood. At first, he didn’t feel anything (except like a fool). Then he wasn’t himself anymore, he was the tree. Jon could feel his roots going deep into the ground, spreading out for hundreds of feet into the Godswood, entangling and growing with other trees. He could feel the trunk going up, breaking into a thousand branches, high into the air, the cold wind rustling through his leaves.

Suddenly he wasn’t in the tree anymore, something had grabbed onto him and was ripping him away. _Bran_ , Jon thought as he watched people and places rushing past him, too fast to know where or who the people were.

And then he was Jon again; he could feel his feet on soft grass, his hair being tossed by a light breeze that carried with it a mist of cool water. “Where are we?” Jon turned to ask Bran, before he realized that his brother wasn’t beside him anymore.

_“CAW!”_ Jon heard loud in his ear, and realized that a raven was sitting on his shoulder; a raven with three eyes.

“Bran?” Jon asked.

_“CAW! CAW!”_ The raven seemed frustrated with itself, and begun flapping his wings into Jon’s hair.

“Calm down!” Jon said, trying not to get scratched.

“Bran! Bran!” The raven called out in a croaky voice, and looked pleased with himself.

“It is you?” Jon asked. “Why are you a bird?”

First the raven said, _“CAW!”_ , and then tried again, “I don’t know.” That time, it was his brother’s voice.

“Where are we?” Jon asked again, now that Bran could speak through the raven.

“Look up.”

Jon did, and saw the biggest castle he had ever seen (not that he had seen many great castles). _It must be tenfold the size of Winterfell_ , Jon thought to himself as he looked over the tremendous walls and towers; that’s when he noticed the way the tops melted, as if some fire had ravaged them. Now he knew where he was. _Harrenhal_.

As he looked around, Jon realized that he and Bran were not alone. Hundreds and hundreds of knights and squires were gathered in front of the castle, dressed in the best armor Jon had ever seen, many of them with sigils he didn’t recognize. _It must be a tourney_. A tourney at Harrenhal. _The_ Tourney at Harrenhal.

None of the men seemed to be able to see Jon though, or hear him, and he took the opportunity to walk through their tents and get a better look at everything, Bran sitting silently on his shoulder. One of the tents stood at least twice the size of all the rest, and Jon began to walk towards it; as he got closer, he realized the tent bore a familiar sigil: the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

Jon almost hesitated before walking in, but steeled his nerves and pushed into the tent. Inside, there was a group of knights that could only be the Kingsguard, with their brilliant white cloaks. _And that must be Ser Arthur Dayne_ , Jon thought, seeing Dawn at the man’s side. Looking away from them, Jon’s breath caught in his throat as he caught sight of the worst man he had ever seen. Seated on a makeshift throne, King Aerys Targaryen looked uglier than Jon could have imagined; his nails grew so long they almost looked like claws, his skin was deathly pale with a green hue, his hair had grown long and unkept, and his violet eyes were sunken deep into his skull. _He looks every bit a Mad King_. On his shoulder, Bran started cawing and flapping his wings wildly. Jon looked over his shoulder to see what had caught his brother’s attention.

“Father?” A man had entered the tent, standing right where Jon had been only a few moments earlier. Rhaegar Targaryen was dressed in full armor, with the Targaryen sigil draped over his chest. He had a similar look to his father, but none of the ugly bits; Rhaegar’s hair was long but well-kept and flowed down his back in soft curls, he was pale but fair where his father seemed impossibly weak, Rhaegar’s chest and shoulders looked like that of a warrior, and his eyes. . . they were an almost impossibly deep purple, like they could almost be black. _Like mine_ , Jon realized.

_“Get out! GET OUT! GET OUT!”_ Just the sight of his son seemed to send Aerys into a fit of rage.

Rhaegar listened to his father, and left the tent as quickly as he’d entered, followed by a handful of the Kingsguard.

“Does he think I’m a fool? That I don’t see what he’s doing? I see my treacherous son for what he is, a coward and a traitor!” The servants around King Aerys seemed scared but not surprised, as if he had yelled like this hundreds of times before.

“What is he talking about?” Jon whispered to Bran, even though he knew no one could hear him.

“ _Caw!_ ” he said, then, “Rumors spread that Rhaegar had paid Lord Whent to host the tourney, in order to oust King Aerys from his throne.”

Jon quickly left the King’s tent. He knew that him and Bran weren’t really here, that no one could see, hear, or touch them; but the way King Aerys had looked and screamed made Jon’s blood run cold, and he wanted to be as far away from the man as he could. _My grandfather_ , he thought mournfully. Jon walked for what seemed like miles, further and further from the tourney grounds. He was going to the shore of the God’s Eye, to splash his face with cold water and try and shake the awful feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Stop! Please!” He heard someone cry out.

Jon started racing toward the noise, and saw three boys, none of them looked older than he had been when he left for the Night’s Watch, laughing and kicking at a boy on the ground. “Hey! Stop it! Stop right now!” Jon was screaming at them. As he raced toward the boys, Jon tried to drag them off, but his hands passed through them as if he were a ghost.

“They can’t hear you.” Bran said sadly on his shoulder. “You can’t help the boy.”

“Who is he?” Jon asked.

“I don’t know.” His brother replied.

“Is someone going to help him?” Jon couldn’t stand to watch the poor boy be pummeled any longer.

“I-”

His brother was interrupted by the shouts of a girl. “Leave him alone! That’s my father’s man you’re kicking!” Her voice reminded Jon of a wolf howling.

The boys, who Jon guessed were squires because of their age, ran as soon as they saw her. Jon looked over to see the girl who could make three boys run in terror, and felt like he had been punched in the stomach, hard. _Lyanna_. It had to be his mother; she had the same hair and eyes as Arya, and the same glint in her eye, a look that made her seem a little wild.

“Are you okay?” She asked the boy, bending down to help him up from the mud.

“Just a little bruised,” the boy said, trying to sound tough.

“That’s Howland Reed!” Bran flapped his wings in excitement.

“How do you know?” The boy didn’t have a sigil on his chest.

“He looks just like Jojen and Meera,” Bran replied, “and he has the build of a crannogmen. I would know it anywhere.”

“Lyanna!” Another boy was calling out, trying to find her. “LYANNA!”

The boy came into Jon’s line of vision, followed closely by two other boys. _Robb?_ Jon thought at first. But his coloring was wrong; where his older brother had red hair and blue eyes, this boy had the Stark hair and eyes. Their builds were almost identical though, and his face was so similar, it would have startled Jon if not for the other two boys.

The same way the first boy had reminded him of Robb, the smallest had the same resemblance to Bran. But it was the one in the middle that had stolen Jon’s attention, because it had to be his father. Years younger than Jon had ever seen him, and without the heaviness and lines of worry that had always characterized his father, but Jon had no doubt it was Eddard Stark. _And Brandon and Benjen_ , Jon concluded. Once Jon had realized who they all were, he could pull his eyes away from their features and notice the Stark sigils they all wore.

Lyanna was holding a tourney sword, and turned to face her shouting brother. “I’m right here!” She sounded exasperated. “Help me.”

Howland Reed was more hurt than he’d initially let on, and Brandon quickly wrapped his arms around his shoulder to steady him. “Who did this?” Ned asked, his voice shy.

“I didn’t recognize the faces, but I saw their sigils.” Howland said through winces.

“Tell me and I’ll pummel them into the dirt.” Brandon said, and Jon understood why people had called him _the_ _Wild Wolf_.

“Stop it,” Lyanna cut in, “that’s not going to help anyone. Let’s fix him up before we do anything.”

“So we’re supposed to sit back and let them get away with this?” Brandon’s voice was high strung.

“Lyanna’s right,” Ned said, “we shouldn’t do something stupid just to make us feel better. We should tell father.”

“No!” Lyanna almost shouted it, sounding almost too eager. “Let me fix it.” She said quieter.

Benjen was at least a foot shorter than his brothers and sister, and was always several paces back, trying to keep up with them even though Brandon was carrying the weight of two. Next to him, Jon was watching his family eagerly. It was so clear to him, the way they interacted as a pack. Brandon and Lyanna were leading the pack, fighting as they went. And his father, Ned, trying to run between them and calm the wild impulses of his siblings. Poor Benjen was a little too young to keep up, and spent all his time just trying to follow along. _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives_. Arya had told him that, and Ned had told her.

Jon felt his stomach pull, and then the ground was spinning beneath him. “What’s happening?” He heard the panic in his own voice as he called out at Bran.

“Hold on.” Bran warned him, and the field beneath started to blur and fade, the tourney grounds fading to black.

His feet hit the ground again, and now he was inside Harrenhal, in what must have been the Great Hall. Enough men to be a small army were inside, and the biggest feast Jon had ever seen was taking place. The High Table was longer than any he had ever seen, and it looked like a hundred or more Lords were seated there. Brandon, Lyanna, Ned, and Benjen were all there, and seated next to them was Howland Reed. The crannogman looked uncomfortable amongst the high lords, but Lyanna was trying her best to make him feel comfortable, laughing at his stories and telling her own.

But Ned wasn’t listening to anything his siblings said, and was staring out into the hall, where tables had been cleared away and lords and ladies were dancing. Jon followed his father’s eyes until he saw her. _Ashara Dayne_. Jon felt his heart break slightly; watching his mother, knowing she was so close to everything going wrong, had made his stomach feel sick. But he had completely forgotten about Ashara Dayne’s fate, and that made him feel even worse.

“Are you going to stare at her all night, or are you going to dance?” Brandon teased his younger brother.

“She would never want to dance with me.”

“Yes, she would.” Brandon said, already standing from the table.

“No!” Ned reached to grab Brandon by the arm and pull him back. “Don’t!”

Brandon shook his arm free of Ned’s grasp. “Too late,” he said laughing, and made his way to Ashara Dayne.

She had been dancing with one of the Kingsguard when Brandon caught her attention, and when the song ended Ashara went to Ned and asked him to dance. Turning away from his father, Jon searched the hall for other faces he would recognize. He didn’t see the King, but a woman he assumed was Elia Martell was seated in the place of honor, Rhaegar sitting beside her. The dancing stag of House Baratheon caught Jon’s eye, and he saw what must have been a young Robert chugging a tankard of ale, racing a Lord Jon didn’t recognize. Then he saw Jaime Lannister, beaming like Jon had never seen him before, and remembered the stories he’d heard and knew that Jaime had just been named a Knight of the Kingsguard.

_The Year of the False Spring_ , that’s what Maesters had named the coming year, and for the first time Jon truly understood what it meant. _You’re all about to die!_ Jon wanted to scream at them, make them stop what was about to happen. But all of them sat there as if nothing was wrong; Lyanna was smiling, and down the table Elia Martell was, too. Robert was playing the games of boys, and Ned was dancing with a pretty girl. Jaime Lannister was happier than he had ever been in his life, no idea the oath he just swore would unravel his life. _It’s all about to come crashing down_ , Jon thought, _and I can’t save them_. Then Rhaegar was standing, walking to the middle of the couples dancing. He brought his harp with him, and began to play slow and sad as everyone danced around him.

Lyanna’s audible gasp pulled Jon’s attention back to her, and he saw tears welling in her eyes. Before, when she had the tourney sword in her hand screaming at the squires, Jon had thought she looked just like Arya; but now she had her hair braided in familiar style, the candlelight highlighting her high cheekbones, and the look in her eyes, Jon realized she looked so much like Sansa, too.

“Are you crying?” Benjen was looking over at his sister, and burst out laughing.

“I am not!” Lyanna tried to protest, but had to say the words through sniffles.

“Yes you were! His stupid song made you cry!” Benjen could hardly get the words out through his fits of laughter.

Quicker than Jon could follow, Lyanna had grabbed her chalice and poured a whole cup of wine on Benjen’s head.

“Hey!” Benjen shouted, and now Lyanna was the one laughing.

“That’s them!” Howland Reed’s voice cut through Benjen and Lyanna’s games, and they both turned to see who he was pointing toward.

Jon looked, too, and saw three squires. Two of the sigils didn’t look familiar to him, but the Twins that marked the Freys of the Crossing made Jon’s blood run hot. _Of course it was them_.

“I can give you armor and a sword, if you want to avenge yourself.” Brandon offered the crannogmen.

“No,” Howland looked more scared than vengeful.

“Stop it, Brandon!” Lyanna was mad at her brother again. “I told you I would take care of it!”

Jon felt the ground pulling out from beneath him again, and shut his eyes tight. When he opened them, he and Bran were back on the tourney grounds; but this time men were readying to joust. Then a hush fell over the crowd as a Mystery Knight rode out and bowed before the King.

“Who is that?” Jon asked Bran.

_“Caw!”_ And then, “I don’t know.”

The mystery knight was the shortest jouster Jon had ever seen, and his armor was clearly bits and pieces from different suits. The sigil on the knight’s shield was breathtaking, though; a laughing weirwood tree, the whites and reds swirled perfectly to make the leaves and branches. The crowd stayed completely silent as the knight challenged only three other knights. _The three men whose squires attacked Howland Reed_ , Jon realized. Did the crannogman change his mind?

Both Jon and Bran watched eagerly as the Mystery Knight rode league better than the knights he had challenged, and defeated each one with confidence. At the end, he made each knight admonish their squire for attacking a weaker man, and then left the tourney grounds.

“I don’t understand. . .” Bran said, “Why are we seeing this?”

“I thought you were leading us?”

“I was, at first. I brought us to a memory of Rhaegar and Lyanna. But now I’m being drug through the memories, pulling you with me as best I can.” As his brother said the words, an idea started to tug at Jon’s mind. And then the ground was pulled out from them once more, and Jon’s world went black.

When he came to again, Bran still perched on his shoulder, they were watching as Rhaegar Targaryen wandered through the fields around Harrenhal, clearly searching for something.

“Stay here,” Bran cawed from his shoulder, “I’ll be right back.” Then he flapped his wings and left Jon’s shoulder.

When Bran flew back several minutes later, he was eager to tell Jon what he’d learned. “The mystery night. They’re searching for the mystery knight! King Aerys has declared him an enemy of the crown.”

“Stop!” Rhaegar’s voice cut through the night, and suddenly the prince was sprinting towards something in the dark. _“STOP!”_

Jon broke into a run, chasing his father through the grass and quickly overtaking him. At first, all Jon had seen was a shadow in the dark, but as he got closer, he could make out more details. It was a short young girl with long brown hair, trying to toss something up into the tree next to her. With a sinking feeling in his gut, Jon knew he had been right about the Mystery Knight. _This is where it all began_.

“Lady Stark?” Rhaegar sounded shocked and confused. “What are you doing?!”

“Nothing, your grace.” She said sheepishly, her cheeks burning red.

Unconvinced, Rhaegar looked up into the tree to see what she had thrown. Even in the dark, he could make out the smiling weirwood. “You? You’re the mystery knight?”

“Yes, your grace.” Lyanna’s voice was trembling now.

“But how? I’ve never seen a girl ride like that before. You were better than knights twice your age!”

Rhaegar sounded more impressed than he did angry, and it gave Lyanna more confidence. “Jousting has more to do with how you sit your horse than it does how you hold your lance,” she said, “and I sit a horse better than anyone.”

“This is how they met?” Jon asked Bran, but all he got was _“caw!”_ in return.

“Why did you only challenge three knights?” Rhaegar asked. “You could have won the tourney if you kept going.”

“I don’t care about winning Lord Whent’s stupid tourney, I wanted to teach the squires a lesson for bullying my friend.”

“You did all of that to help a friend?” Rhaegar sounded disbelieving.

“They hurt him just because he was weaker,” Lyanna’s voice sounded so small now, in comparison to Rhaegar’s. “They shouldn’t be able to do that.” Then, after a pause, she said, “Are you going to give me to your father?”

“Have him kill you for helping a friend? I wouldn’t think of it.” Jon was starting to understand all the glowing stories of Prince Rhaegar, seeing how charming he could be. His smile reached all the way to his eyes, and he stared at Lyanna as if she was the only thing he ever cared to see. “If anything, I should reward you. Anything you want is yours.”

“I couldn’t possibly accept, your grace.”

“Yes, you can. I’ll give you anything in the world.”

“I’ve always liked winter roses.” Lyanna said.

“I offer you anything in the world, and all you want is flowers?”

“Yes, your grace.” Now she sounded embarrassed.

“Then flowers you shall have.”

Jon felt the ground lurch again. “Stop it, Bran! Don’t let us leave!” He was getting to see his mother and father together, starting to understand how Lyanna had run off with Prince Rhaegar. He couldn’t leave.

“ _CAW!_ There’s nothing I can do, Jon, I’m trying!”

Too quickly, the scene was fading from Jon’s eyes. He desperately tried to cling to it, but the force of the vision was dragging him away.

When he came to, he was back on the tourney grounds, watching as Rhaegar paraded his horse around in victory. _“No, no, no, NO!”_ Jon was screaming at him, begging him to stop. But the Prince couldn’t hear him. Everybody was laughing and smiling, Brandon teasing Benjen, Ned talking with his father Rickard, Robert jesting with Jon Arryn (Jon guessed, since he wore the falcon sigil on his chest), Lyanna’s eyes lit up with the thrill of knights and tourneys and horses. Then Rhaegar galloped passed his own wife, racing toward Lyanna with a crown of blue winter roses, naming her the _Queen of Love and Beauty_. At first, she looked into Rhaegar’s eyes and smiled wider than Jon had ever seen anyone before; but then she looked to her father and brothers, who all looked pale as milk. And then Jon saw her turn to Robert Baratheon, whose face was glowing red and full of rage. Last, she saw the look of despair written on Elia Martell’s face.

Lyanna’s smile broke. _The moment when all the smiles died_.

Jon watched helplessly, Bran still on his shoulder, as his mother raced from the tourney grounds. Then the vision was gone as quickly as it came, and he and Bran were again thrown back through memories. But unlike all the other times, the whirlwind wasn’t stopping; instead, it was only getting faster. Voices and places were rushing past Jon, and he tried desperately to understand.

“How could you do that that in front of everyone? In front of _her_? Did you even see the way she looked at me?” Lyanna was crying.

“She doesn’t matter!” It was Rhaegar’s voice.

“She’s your wife! She bore you children! How could she not matter?”

“I don’t love her! I love you!”

“You love me?” Lyanna had sounded so much older than her years before, but now she sounded like a girl again. Jon’s heart broke for her.

“Lyanna you can’t!” Jon didn’t recognize the voice, and knew he was in a new memory now.

“Yes I can, Benjen! I just need your help.”

“Think of what father will say! And Brandon!”

“It will all be fine when Rhaegar marries me, and I live in the Red Keep. The lie will only last a little while, then father and Eddard and Brandon can know the truth.” She sounded so sure of it. “And if anything goes wrong, you’ll tell them, won’t you?”

“O-Okay.” Benjen sounded terrified.

“You’ll help? Really?” Lyanna sounded surprised.

“Y-yes,” Benjen replied, and Lyanna wrapped him in a hug.

Then the memory was gone, chased by hundreds of others. Jon saw Rhaegar and Lyanna running away, Brandon and Rickard marching to King’s Landing, Benjen desperately trying to stop them but no one listening, the Mad King laughing as Brandon died reaching for his father. Jon slammed his eyes shut, trying to block it out, trying to make it stop.

And then it did, or so he thought. Jon opened his eyes when he felt his feet on solid ground, and looked out into a desert.

“The Tower of Joy,” Bran said.

Jon slowly ascended the steps, dread weighing down his shoulders. He knew this is where his mother died, and feared what he would see when he made it to the top. But before he was more than halfway up, the soft sounds of someone playing the harp filled his ears, and Jon quickened his pace.

“He likes it.” Lyanna’s voice said, and Jon bounded up the steps to see her.

“I knew he would.” Rhaegar’s voice answered as Jon made it to the top.

“What song is it? I’ve never heard it before.”

“His song. I wrote it first when Aegon was born, but now I know. . . it belongs to our son. He is the Prince that was Promised.”

“What does that mean?” Lyanna’s voice was weary. When Jon looked in his mother’s eyes, he didn’t have to see the past to understand what raced through her mind; her father and brother were dead, the rest of her family marching to war against Rhaegar’s father. Before she had looked at Rhaegar lovesick, but now she smiled sadly. _I was the reason she stayed_ , Jon realized, _she wanted to keep me safe_.

“Even I can’t say exactly, but I’m sure of it. His is the song of ice and fire. I have dreams. . . I know our son is going to be special. Once, I thought the dreams were for me, but now I know they are his. The world rests on his shoulders.”

Lyanna looked down at her stomach. “He’s not even born yet, and you talk of the world resting on his shoulders?”

“I have to go now,” Rhaegar said as if he hadn’t heard her.

“Please don’t go,” Lyanna’s eyes were welling with tears, and her voice was pleading. _She knows he’s going to march against her brother_. Jon’s heart broke again.

“I have to.”

“Please, Rhaegar, please!”

Rhaegar turned his back on his crying wife, and began walking down the steps.

“Stop!” Jon called after him, chasing him down the steps. “You can’t just leave her here to die alone!” He tried to grab his father’s shoulder, but his arm passed harmlessly through.

“Jon,” Bran’s voice was soft, “you can’t stop him. There’s nothing you can do. The past is the past.”

“But he’s just leaving her alone!” Jon could feel tears running hot down his cheeks.

“She won’t be alone, though, when the time comes. Father was here to say goodbye, and promise to keep her safe. He was there for her.”

Jon could feel his stomach get sick, and knew the vision was fading. This time he was glad for that; he couldn’t be in the tower any longer, listening to the sounds of Lyanna’s weeping. It was all too much.

This time, when Jon opened his eyes, he was back in Winterfell’s Godswood. It had only been midday when he and Bran had gone to the Heart tree, but now he could see the sun rising; night had just broken, and dawn was coming. _Could we have been here so long?_ Jon hardly felt cold, eve though he should be freezing.  He wanted to ask Bran hundreds of questions, like _“What did Rhaegar mean when he said my song was of ice and fire?”_

But before he could, Jon realized what had pulled him and Bran out of the vision. _“Uuuuuuuuuuhoooooooooooooooooooooo,”_ and after a short pause, _“Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhooooooooooooooooo”_. Jon’s heart froze as he waited to see if the horn would blow again. _Thank the gods_ , he thought when it didn’t.

Just two blasts. One was for rangers, and three was for White Walkers; but two was for Wildlings. _Tormund is here_.


	16. BRAN III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I desperately try to make the show's battle strategy make sense. . .

The High Table had been moved to the center of the Great Hall, and instead of food was now covered in a makeshift map of Winterfell. All of the other feasting tables had been pushed to the walls of the room, and the seats now formed a circle for the lords and military men to sit and listen as they tried to plan for the Night King’s attack. Bran sat on one end of the table, with Arya and Gendry standing off to his right, and Sansa, Jon, and Daenerys to his left. Filling out the table was Tyrion, Davos, Theon, Tormund, Sam, Brienne of Tarth, and Jaime Lannister. However uncomfortable Jaime made him and the Northern lords, they all had to begrudgingly accept that he was the most experienced commander they had; no one would agree to follow his command, but they would accept his advice in how to prepare. Gendry was there to answer questions of dragonglass weapons, Davos and Tyrion as the former and current Hand of the King/Queen to Jon and Daenerys, and Theon because he was the only person besides Jon who had ever taken Winterfell.

Theon Greyjoy was the only person who could make Bran as uneasy as Jaime Lannister. It had been years since Theon had taken Winterfell out from under him, using everything he’d learned as a friend and brother to Robb to take the castle. He had even pretended to kill Bran, flaying and burning two poor boys. But Bran forced himself to remember that Theon wasn’t that person anymore. He had saved Sansa’s life and was the reason they could take Winterfell back from the Boltons.

“How many men are going to be on the field?” Brienne asked.

“Preferably none.” Jaime was quick to say. “Shouldn’t we stay within Winterfell’s walls, using the castle’s many defenses to our advantage? Putting men on the field seems foolish.”

“You’re thinking as if this were a siege.” Jon said.

“Well, isn’t it?”

“No. If this were a siege, we could try and outlast them, stay in the castle and let the weather tear their army apart. But the Night King doesn’t have to worry about food or rain or cold; he rides with an army of dead men, who don’t even need sleep. They won’t lose their spirit or will to fight, they won’t get tired or scared, no amount of time could ever beat them back. They aren’t human anymore. The Night King can throw them at our defenses, and his wights won’t stop to avoid hurting themselves or getting killed. If he has to, the Night King will make piles of his own men high enough to climb over our walls; and any men we lose in the fight will come back as our enemy.”

Jon’s words hung over the room, until Jaime finally broke the silence, “You may be right on that, but I still don’t understand why we should have men outside the walls.”

“The Night King is as smart as anyone here.” Everyone turned to look at Bran. “If we stay inside the castle, he’s going to know something is wrong and won’t attack with his army. Instead, he’ll lead with Viserion and we’ll be dead before we could stop him.”

“Bran is right,” Jon said. “Our plan is to lure the wights into the moat through here,” he pointed on the map to the North Gate, “and trap them there. The outer gate will be closed, but left easy to break through, while the inner gate has been iced over and weighted shut. Once the wights pour into the moat, we’ll light it on fire. We’ve drained it of water and filled it with dry wood and oil. When the signal is given, Daenerys or I will light the fire using the dragons. If men aren’t on the field, the Night King won’t send the wights through the gate.”

“So the men on the field are bait?” Jaime asked.

“No.” Sansa answered, looking appalled by the question. “The men watching the East Gate are going to open it when our men retreat. And Daenerys is going to be flying overhead, aiding the men on the field.” Daenerys nodded her agreement. “The men will be on horseback, so they should be able to ride through the wights and make it through the gate.”

“Some of them will die,” Jon said somberly, “but no more than the men inside the castle when the wights break through the gates or Viserion burns them down.” Bran saw Jon glance uneasily at Daenerys. “As our men stand, we hardly have a chance. Putting men on the field is our best strategy.”

“If the Army of the Dead is as vast as you say, and the wights so hard to kill, how could we possibly beat them back?” Jaime asked the question everyone in the room was thinking.

“We kill the Night King.” Jon said. “He created the White Walkers who turned the men into wights. If he dies, they all die with him.”

“If the wights die with him, why would he ever expose himself?”

“He’s coming to kill me.” Bran said. He had suspected as much ever since he had left the cave of the Three Eyed Raven, but the visions he’d seen in the last several days made him sure. “Beyond the wall, he marked me.” Bran rolled his sleeve to show them the handprint burned onto his wrist. “The Night King always knows where I am, and he’s always looking for me. If I wait for him in the Godswood, he’ll come for me.”

“But you’re just a boy,” Arya said, “why is the Night King coming for you?”

“Because I remember. I can look back through the past, all the way to the first Long Night, and see how he was made, see how the First Men and the Children of the Forest built the Wall to keep him back. The Night King was just a man once, like any of us, until the Children changed him into a weapon against the First Men. Now all he wants is to destroy the living. And I’m the only one who knows how to stop him.” Bran knew there was more to it than that; not only did he know how the Night King was made, he knew _everything_. No matter how many people the Night King killed, how much history he destroyed or races he killed, like the Children of the Forest and the Giants, Bran could still remember their past. The realms of men could never be forgotten if Bran was there to keep the memory alive. He held everything that all living things had ever done in his memory. In the same way the wights were connected to the Night King, living things were connected to him; if Bran died, the realms of men would fall. That’s why the Night King was searching for him.

“If the Night King is coming for you, there’s no way you should be in the Godswood. We can’t use you as bait!” Arya said, and Sansa and Jon nodded agreement.

“When the fighting starts, you should be in the crypts with Sansa.” Jon said.

“No! If I’m in the crypt, The Night King will burn the castle down to get to me. If I’m in the Godswood, I’ll be away from everyone else. I’m not going to let anyone get hurt because of me! And I can’t explain it, but I just _know_ I’m safest in the Godswood.”

“But we’re not going to leave you alone!” Sansa said.

“He won’t be alone.” Theon Greyjoy said quietly, as if he was scared to speak. “I’ll be with him.”

“You?” Bran said, stunned.

Theon met his eyes. “Yes. I’ll die to protect you if I have to.” His voice broke as he said it.

Jon put his head in his hands and sighed. When he looked up, he said, “If you insist on being in the Godswood, then Theon and a group of Northmen can protect you. And. . .” Jon looked pained. “Take Ghost with you to the Godswood, and he’ll keep you safe. And I’ll watch for the Night King in the sky, with Rhaegal.”

“And dragonfire will kill the Night King?” Arya asked, still concerned for Bran. It hurt him to know his family would be worried about him while fighting for their lives, but Bran knew he had no other choice.

“Nobody has ever tried before.” Bran was tempted to lie to her, to tell Arya and Sansa and Jon that dragonfire could kill him so they wouldn’t worry, but he knew he needed to be honest. “The first time the White Walkers came, dragons were still in Valyria. Nobody has ever killed the Night King before.”

“Valyrian steel and dragonglass kill the wights and White Walkers, shouldn’t they kill him?” Jon asked.

“I don’t know. The wights were all made through his touch, but the Night King himself was turned by the Children of the Forest. When they made him, they stabbed his side with dragonglass, so I don’t think that can kill him. But Valyrian steel could kill him; it’s forged with magic, secrets that died with Old Valyria.”

Everyone in the room seemed to sit more uneasy in their seats. _All of our hopes depend on killing the Night King, and we’re not even sure we can_.

Jon seemed to realize more talk of the Night King would only make things worse, and instead began discussing how the women, children, and anyone incapable of fighting would stay in Winterfell’s crypts. Sansa spoke up to say she would be leading them, and would be in the crypts to comfort and keep them calm.

“Excuse me if this is foolish to say, but if the Night King can raise the dead, are the crypts really a safe place?” Gendry asked timidly.

“The wights are strong enough to kill men, but the bodies in the crypts are interred in stone. There is no way they could escape their statues.”

Then they discussed more details of how they wanted the battle to go; hours of argument and decisions made about how many men would be where, who would be on the walls, where the trebuchets would be placed, and on and on. Bran knew all of that was important, but he found it hard to focus knowing how soon the Night King would be outside Winterfell’s gates.

Bran had been in the Godswood with Jon when the horn had blown twice, announcing Tormund’s arrival at the North Gate. The visions the two had seen together still troubled him; Bran felt like he knew more than ever what the Night King wanted and how to defeat him, but there was still so much he didn’t understand. Why had those visions been so important to see? At first, Bran had been able to control what they were seeing, but then the weirwood itself seemed to take over, as if the spirits and memories trapped in the tree wanted him to see. What had Rhaegar meant when he said _“his is the song of ice and fire”_ , talking about Jon? Why was he so sure that Jon carried the world on his shoulders?

But before Bran could even try and find the answers to those questions, he and Jon had raced to the north courtyard to see Tormund, who had arrived with Ed Tollett and a few other wildlings and men of the Night’s Watch.

“Did you see the men of House Umber? We sent them north three days past.”

“No,” Tormund said, “the fog and storm made it hard to see more than anything that wasn’t right in front of you. We could have passed right by them and never have known. But no one who isn’t here now could be alive.” Tormund paused, clearly shaken by what he was about to say. “Even when we faced them on the frozen lake, it wasn’t anything like what I saw when he tore down the Wall. His army is without number, Jon, and monsters march with him.”

“How long do we have?” Jon said, fear in his voice.

“The Night King was right behind us. He’ll be here before tonight is over.”

From that moment on, the whole castle had been thrown into a whirlwind of chaos. For months, the people of the North had been preparing for the Army of the Dead, but now that they had less than a day to be ready, the atmosphere changed.

Now, sitting around the High Table arguing over how best to try and survive, Bran could not focus his thoughts. He knew all of that was important, and could be the difference between life and death for hundreds or thousands of men and even Bran himself, but that wasn’t where his fight was going to be. The connection he shared with the Night King wasn’t physical or something that could be broken with a fight; there was something else that connected them - the magic and memories of the Children of the Forest. When Bran slipped his skin and went into the trees, he could feel the souls of men and Children who died in the first Long Night; and he could even feel the Night King when he went back to when he was created. Bran could see the terror on his face as the Children stabbed him with the dragonglass, and could watch the humanity in him die as he changed.

Lost in his own thoughts, Bran almost didn’t notice when the war council ended and everyone began to leave the Great Hall. “Jon, can I speak with you alone?” Bran heard Sansa ask, at the same time Daenerys said, “Jon, can we talk?”

Bran’s brother looked at him, begging for any way out of both conversations. Bran was one of the only people who knew Jon’s secret, and understood why he couldn’t stomach talking to Daenerys or Sansa. But before Bran could try and make up an excuse for him, Sam grabbed Jon forcefully by the arm. “I need to speak with him first.” Sam’s eyes were red and puffy, as if he had been crying, and stared daggers at Daenerys.

Jon looked relieved. “I’ll speak with you soon,” he said, not meeting Sansa or Daenerys’ eyes. Sansa looked disappointed, but something else flashed behind Daenerys’ eyes that Bran didn’t quite understand. Could it be fear?

All three of them left the room, heading off in different directions as if they were afraid to be around each other. The only person who didn’t leave the room was Tyrion Lannister.

“I wanted to speak with you alone.” Tyrion said, dragging a seat over to sit next to Bran. “The way you speak of the Night King and the visions you have; you know more than you let on. I’m the cleverest person I’ve ever met, and I know how to recognize that in someone else.”

Something about the tone of Tyrion’s voice made Bran uneasy, as if he was interested in Bran as some sort of puzzle he wanted to solve. “I don’t always understand what I see,” Bran said, not wanting to tell Tyrion anything more than he’d already told everyone else.

“Yet you see more than anyone else. This. . . _ability_ you have, I want to know more.”

“Is now really the time?” Bran said defensively.

“We could all be dead by morning. Now is the only time.” Tyrion said with a devilish grin.

So Bran told Tyrion his story; how he and Rickon had dreamt of Ned, and how he had met Jojen and Meera Reed, and how together they had met the Three Eyed Raven. The whole time, Tyrion listened intently, as if something about the story was the most important tale he had ever heard.

“You can see everything that has ever happened? _Everything?_ ” Tyrion asked, as Bran ended his story.

“Everything.” Bran wasn’t entirely sure the limits of his ability, and some memories were much harder for him to see than others, but he saw enough to know the story of everything.

“All the Kings and Queens and Lords that ever ruled?”

“And all the mistakes and tragedies they made.” Bran answered.

“It seems you know more about being one than anyone ever has.” Tyrion said.


	17. BRIENNE I

She was walking through one of Winterfell’s many long corridors with Podrick Payne when she heard laughter coming from one of the solars.

“Who could be laughing right now?” Pod asked her.

Brienne shook her head in a gesture that said, _I don’t know_. People did queer things when they thought they were going to die. She herself had been unable to fall asleep, even though she knew she should rest as much as possible before the horn blew. The war council had left her too shaken to fall asleep; even though the North had been expecting the Night King’s arrival since the Wall fell, it still felt like she had been blindsided by Tormund’s words. _The Night King would come before dawn_.

And the way Bran had seemed in the Great Hall left her even more disturbed than she had been before. The only hope the living had against the dead was to kill the Night King, and Jon had always seemed sure that fire, dragonglass, or Valyrian steel could kill him if someone had a chance; but Bran had seen more of the Night King than anyone through his visions, and he didn’t seem confident in anything.

Instead of laying quietly and thinking of her impending death, Brienne had decided to walk the castle grounds and see if anything needed doing. Podrick had volunteered to walk with her, apparently as restless as she was. Now the two of them wandered through empty halls. Only hours before, every room and hall in Winterfell had been filled with all manner of people who had fled their castles or homes further to the north. But when Tormund had arrived right after daybreak, Lady Sansa had immediately started moving people down into the crypts, where food and supplies had been gathered for those who would be unable to fight; any entrance to the crypt had also been refortified, and any tombs that seemed close to breaking had been reworked.

The castle had been left completely quiet, with everyone either in the crypts or out on the walls or in the courtyards watching for the Army of the Dead. Brienne and Podrick hadn’t seen anyone else until now. When she looked towards the direction of the laughter, Brienne saw torchlight shining out beneath the door, and shadows moving as well. She almost motioned Podrick to keep walking, but curiosity got the better of her and she walked towards the solar and opened it.

Sitting by a warm fire, looking halfway in their cups, was Tyrion and Jaime Lannister. Brienne felt a flutter under her ribs and tried to keep her cheeks from warming. She had talked to Jaime when he had first arrived, but in the last few days had been too busy to seek him out; and she wasn’t sure if he even wanted to see her. The last two times they had met, at Riverrun and King’s Landing, Jaime had ignored her council and instead sided with his sister, Cersei. _But he rode North_ , a voice in the back of her head kept saying.

He had let his hair grow out, and a beard again hid his jawline. It made him look very much the way he had when he and Brienne had travelled through the Riverlands, and she had come to see him as more than just the Kingslayer.

“Lady Brienne,” he greeted her, a smile on his lips and his eyes dancing from the wine _. A laughing lion_ , she thought as she looked at him, though most of his pride had left him in the years since Robb Stark took him captive in the Whispering Wood. Brienne knew most people didn’t see a lion at all when they looked at him now, but she knew him well enough to see it in the way he stood; a slinking cat, waiting to pounce if someone tried to attack.

“Ser Jaime,” she said, returning his greeting.

“And Podrick Payne!” Tyrion jumped from his seat, stumbling against his chair, clearly more drunk than he had thought he was.

“L-Lord Tyrion,” Podrick said shyly. He had grown leagues more confident since Brienne had met him, but meeting his former Lord always made Pod stumble and stutter as if he were a boy again.

“Care for a drink?” Jaime said, motioning toward several tankards of ale and wine chalices sitting on a table against the wall.

“We’ll be fighting for our lives in a matter of hours,” Brienne replied, “is now really the best time to fill your cup?”

“When you’re about to die is the best time to fill your cup!” Tyrion said, already pouring two cups for Brienne and Podrick.

The squire went to take the cup Tyrion offered, then looked sheepishly over at Brienne. Even though he was a man grown now, and as good with a sword as most knights, he still looked at her for approval. Brienne had come to see him as a sort of son to her, and wondered if he saw her in the same way.

“You might as well,” she said, and took a cup for herself. _You could be dead by morning, and this is your last chance to enjoy life before it ends,_ she thought to herself, but didn’t say aloud. The thought was enough to bring tears to her eyes, but she blinked them back and quickly gulped half a cup of wine.

“What brings the two of you here to a lonely castle?” Jaime asked teasingly, looking right at Brienne. She knew he had always been fascinated by the blue of her eyes; _the only part of you that’s beautiful_ , he had told her once. She wondered if he was looking at them now.

“Contemplating the nature of life and death, I imagine.” Tyrion said. “As one is like to do before an army of dead men comes to kill them.” He gulped down more of his ale.

“Nothing as depressing as that,” Brienne answered, though in truth Tyrion was not far off. “Simply couldn’t sleep.”

“And you?” Tyrion looked toward Podrick.

“I couldn’t sleep either. Too many nightmares.”

“You too?” Tyrion’s eyes seemed to sober up instantly. “Hundreds of miles apart in a different castle, yet it all looks the same before a battle. Last night I dreamt of green fire and lost noses.”

Podrick looked as if he was going to say something, then shut his mouth and nodded. He had told her stories from the Battle of the Blackwater, how he had killed his first man to save Tyrion Lannister; it had been Ser Mandon Moore, a knight of the Kingsguard. Brienne knew the memory bothered Podrick more than he admitted, and had heard the way he whimpered in his sleep. He was so young to have seen as much as he had, and yet the worst had not even begun.

“You were always my best squire, you know,” Tyrion said quietly. “Good for nothing except company, but my favorite nonetheless.” Some of his humor was coming back to him. “You were always terrible with a sword.”

“Not anymore,” Brienne said defensively, though she knew Tyrion didn’t mean his comments spitefully.

“Really?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

“He’s as good as any knight I’ve seen.” Brienne replied, and looked over to see Podrick sitting bright red in his seat.

“Surely not any knight.” Jaime cut in. “I seem to remember you travelling with the best swordsman of his generation.”

“I’d bet a hundred gold dragons the boy could take you in a fight right now.” Tyrion said laughing.

Before Brienne could tell Jaime she had never seen anyone half as good as he was with a sword (not even the Hound), heavy footsteps pulled her attention to the door.

“Drinking? Without me?” Tormund said as he entered the room, followed close behind by Davos Seaworth.

“Shouldn’t you be manning the walls?” Tyrion asked. “Someone has to keep us safe while we drink ourselves to death by a warm fire!”

“No use waiting out in the cold. Stay out there any longer and I’ll be dead before the fighting starts.” Davos said, standing right in front of the fire, his hands still shaking from the cold.

“If I’m going to fight dead men tonight, I want to be too drunk to remember.” Tormund said, and instead of pouring himself a cup, grabbed a whole tankard of ale and took a long gulp.

Brienne instinctively ground her teeth at the sound of his voice. The wildling was always so forward in a way that she found off-putting. She couldn’t begrudge him for drinking now, though, especially since he was one of the few people who had seen the White Walkers and their wights before; he knew exactly what was marching on Winterfell.

He sat down beside Jaime, right across from Brienne. “I didn’t know you would be here.” He said, and winked. Brienne tried not to roll her eyes.

“We’re all about to die, and you’re _flirting?_ ” Jaime said, looking at Tormund with disdain.

“Aye!” Tormund smiled and drank even more. Normally Brienne hated him, but his exuberance was comforting now, when everyone else seemed so close to breaking. The wildling broke into story after story about his own battles beyond the wall; most of which sounded impossible to Brienne, but everyone was laughing, so she just laughed along with them.

Soon, everyone joined Tormund exchanging their favorite stories. Tyrion told the tale of how Catelyn Stark had kidnapped him and Bronn fought for his life in the Eyrie; Podrick explained how he and Brienne had been attacked by Littlefinger’s men at the Inn at the Crossroads; and Davos told everyone about Stannis’ great victory at the Wall (interrupted many times by Tormund).

“I have a good one,” Jaime spoke up, “it’s about a bear and a maiden fair.” With a smile, he raced through the story of how he and Brienne had been captured by the Bloody Mummers and taken to Harrenhal. Brienne was shocked at how well Jaime remembered everything; all the details, even how he had said “I only rescue maidens” when he jumped into the bear pit. Every time Brienne tried to steal a glance at Jaime, he was already smiling at her.

“So I wasn’t the only Lannister kidnapped and run through Westeros by that she-wolf?” Tyrion laughed into his cup.

Brienne was going to say something in defense of Catelyn Stark, but Davos spoke first, “It’s funny, isn’t it? Everyone in this room was tryin’ to kill the Starks at one point or another, yet we’re all goin’ to die defending their castle.”

Looking around the room, Brienne realized Davos was right. Even she had fought against the Starks at first, as one of Renly Baratheon’s kingsguard. When he had been murdered, everyone had suspected her; a stupid girl with a stupid crush who killed the King. But Catelyn had been there to know the truth, and had made Brienne her closest companion, even sharing in her grief over Bran and Rickon. Catelyn had a strength about her that Brienne had never seen before, a fierce protectiveness and righteous anger. After Renly died, Brienne didn’t even want to run; without Catelyn, she would have let Renly’s men kill her. But Catelyn had forced her along, and given her something to fight for.

“The freefolk don’t die defending lords in their castles,” Tormund said. “But I’d follow Jon Snow and his she-wolf, even this far south.”

“She-wolf?”

“That redheaded sister of his. A she-wolf, cause she’s like to bite.” Tormund replied. “The whole lot o’ the Starks are like the wolves they wear on their chests. More wilding than lordling, if you ask me.”

Brienne laughed. She knew Lady Sansa could put on a strong face when she had to, but Brienne had always known a softer side of her. She was still a young girl, hardly a woman grown, and cared more for poetry and the high harp than she did arguing with a room full of lords. But now that Tormund said it, Brienne could see how Sansa could be a direwolf; the way she was calm, like a wolf sleeping, until someone threatened her family, then she would pounce. Brienne knew from her talks with Lady Catelyn that there was a time Sansa was just a pup; but Sansa and Jon had rallied the whole North and Vale behind them, as well as the freefolk. She was grown now, and leading a pack behind her.

“Father would roll in his grave if he knew we were going to die defending the Starks.” Jaime quipped at Tyrion.

“I should know; I put him there.” Tyrion had meant it as a joke, but the whole room fell quiet as everyone turned toward Jaime, who was sitting still as a stone. Then Jaime put his head down and laughed, the tension passing as quickly as it came.

Time passed quickly, everyone growing merrier and drunker as the hours went on. Even Brienne, who was trying not to drink and was only sipping at her ale, was starting to feel it; she had finished one cup and started the next, her head starting to feel warm and her stomach giddy. The green of Jaime’s eyes was making her smile, and sometimes he would look at her and laugh, too.

“I think it’s time we all turned in,” she said, looking over to Podrick. The ale was starting to make her thoughts fuzzy, and she knew she needed to sleep it off before the dead arrived.

“No! If we’re all going to die, we might as well do it drunk!” Tyrion said.

“Do you really think we’ll all die?” Podrick’s voice sounded small and shy.

“You don’t?” Jaime asked in return.

“I think we’re as like to live as we are to die.”

“I’ve seen knights fall to less than an army of dead men, and you’re only a squire.” Tyrion’s words were harsh, but his tone was not; he wasn’t trying to be mean, just speaking the truth as he saw it.

“But he could be a knight.” An idea suddenly came into Brienne’s head. She had never done it before because she couldn’t, but now Jaime was here. If Podrick Payne was going to die, she wanted him to do it as more than just the squire to the Maiden of Tarth, who wasn’t even a knight. “Ser Jaime, would you knight him?”

“Why can’t you?” Tormund asked.

“Only a knight or a king can make another knight.” She answered.

“And you’re not a knight?” Tormund sounded shocked.

“There’s never been a woman knight before, it’s not tradition.” Brienne paused for a beat, then turned to Jaime. “Would you?”

Jaime stood from his chair and walked to the other end of the room, pulling his sword from its sheath and motioning for Podrick to follow. Instead of getting up, Podrick stayed seated, his eyes big as saucers. “Well, are you coming or not?” Jaime asked sarcastically.

“I-I don’t think I deserve it.” He barely managed to say through stutters, his face turning even redder.

Brienne reached over and grabbed his hand reassuringly. “You deserve it as much as anyone ever has.”

Podrick stood up hesitantly and walked across the room.

“Take a knee.” Jaime said. When Podrick did, Jaime placed his sword on his right shoulder and began the ceremony. “You’re supposed to stand vigil through the night before I do this, but if Brienne vouches for you, then we can do it now, considering our impending deaths. . .”

As Jaime said the vows and Podrick recited them, Brienne could see his eyes wetting with tears, and had to wipe some from her own cheeks. When he was done reciting his vows, Podrick Payne arose as an anointed knight, and quickly took his seat again.

But Jaime stayed standing, and looked over at Brienne. “Come here.”

“Why?”

“Because you deserve to be a knight.” Jaime said with a smile.

“But I can’t-”

“Yes, you can.”

“But I’m a woman-”

“Any knight can make a knight. I’m a knight of the Kingsguard; I can anoint anyone I want.”

The ale suddenly made her feel stupid. Without telling them to, she felt her legs stand up and start walking over to him. _This isn’t real_ , she thought as she started to kneel, _I’ve had too much to drink and I’m dreaming_. Brienne had never been a good daughter; too ugly and lanky for dresses or dancing, too shy and nervous to charm visiting lords and ladies, and she had never been good at sewing. The only things she could do was sing, and that wasn’t enough. Her father Lord Selwyn had never yelled or even seemed disappointed in her, but Brienne knew he had to be; who could be happy with a daughter like her? Then she had left home to play at swords, knowing she could never be anything more than laughed at.

But now she was on one knee, looking into Jaime’s green eyes as he started the vows, “In the name of the Warrior. . .” She could feel tears streaming down her face. When she had first met Jaime Lannister, he had been so selfish and rude, calling her ugly and slow and stupid, confirming all of her worst fears about herself. But he was different now; he wore the change on his body for all to see – the weariness in his eyes and shoulders, the greying hair that made him look less Lannister, and the missing hand he had lost to save her. Now he was breaking hundreds of years of tradition to make Brienne a knight.

“Brienne of Tarth, do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?”

“Yes,” she heard herself say. “Thank you, Jaime.” Her voice was trembling.

“Arise, Brienne of Tarth, A knight of the Seven Kingdoms!”


	18. ARYA III

She walked to the Godswood with Theon, Sansa, and Bran; Ghost trotting beside them. _It’s not goodbye_ , she reminded herself with every step. But a part of her was terrified that it was. The sun had set, leaving Winterfell shrouded in a thick black night that felt more final than any other night Arya had seen, as if the sun would never come back. A shudder ran up her spine. _You’re only imagining it_ , she scolded herself, _fear cuts deeper than swords_.

When she finally felt the soft dirt of the Godswood under her feet, she felt her fears ease. Winterfell had always felt alive to her, the way water from hot springs ran through it’s walls like blood, the broken towers and old keeps like worry lines on an old, but kind, face; and if Winterfell was alive, the Godswood was the heart of the castle. Her father had always come here, to pray or mourn or be thankful, to seek forgiveness or guidance from the Old Gods, to be with his own thoughts. Bran had told her that a part of skin changers lived in the trees – little pieces of their thoughts and memories, lives forgotten by everyone and everything except the weirwoods. She wondered if that’s what drew people to the trees.

“Are you sure you want to come here now? It could be hours before the battle starts.” Sansa said, pulling Arya from her thoughts.

“I want to be with the trees,” Bran answered. In the time since Arya had come home, she had seen Bran slowly come back to himself; but sometimes he spoke in such an odd way, as if he was hundreds or thousands of years old.

“And you’re sure you want to do this? Use yourself as bait?” Arya asked him.

“It’s the only way,” her brother answered with certainty.

She wanted to argue with him, to tell him how stupid and dangerous it was to leave him waiting for the Night King to arrive, to drag him down into the crypts where he would be safest. But how could she tell him not to do something so brave? And if he was right that the Night King would come looking for him, then it was the only way.

“Please be safe,” she told him, almost laughing at her own words. How could you be safe when the King of the dead was coming to kill you?

“I’ll try,” he said, smiling.

She bent down and hugged him, closing her eyes and leaning into his chest. When she finally let go, her hand moved instinctively to the dagger hung on her left hip. Bran had given it to her the first day she had come back, when Sansa brought her to the Godswood to see him again. For such a small thing, the dagger seemed oddly important to her. Not because it was Valyrian steel, though she loved having a Valyrian steel dagger; but because of how important it was to her family. Her mother’s blood had been on the edge, when she sacrificed her hands to save Bran’s life; then Sansa had travelled with Littlefinger and the dagger for years, until Bran was gifted the blade that was supposed to take his life. Arya squeezed the hilt tightly and let it go, leaving it resting against her hip.

“Are you going to the crypts now?” She asked Sansa.

“No. I’m going to stay in the Godswood for a little bit.”

Arya hugged her, scratched Ghost under his nose, then quickly left the Godswood, forcing herself not to say goodbye. Sansa, Bran, and Jon would all be okay.

Almost everyone had gone down below the castle into the crypts, or was going out beyond the gate or manning the high walls, leaving Winterfell empty as Arya walked through the many hallways. She had set out to find Jon, but quickly realized she had no idea where to look; he had left the war council with Samwell Tarly, and she hadn’t seen him since. She had barely seen him for days, ever since he said he had something important to tell her . . . sometime, anyway; _of course_ he couldn’t tell her now. Jon’s secret had been pulling at her mind for days; what could it be? Could it be the truth of his relationship to Daenerys Targaryen? Arya had suspected it from the time they arrived, but Jon seemed unwilling to discuss it, and Sansa was too. She knew Jon had always felt out of place among his family, that’s part of why they were so close, but could he really believe his love for Daenerys Targaryen could turn them against him? Arya had no love for the dragon queen, but Jon was family. And she trusted him more than anyone; Jon would never do something to hurt her, their family, or the North.

Giving up her search inside the castle, she walked along one of the parapets toward the crypts to see if Jon had gone to say a word to his people before the siege began. Leaning against the wall, a flagon of ale in his hand, was Sandor Clegane.

“What are you doing here?” He asked in his growl of a voice. “Shouldn’t you be hiding in the crypts with all the other scared little girls?”

Arya almost turned around and ran back the direction she’d came. Something about the Hound made her skin crawl and her belly turn to stone. When she had known him, it had been before Braavos, when she really was a scared little girl who couldn’t protect herself; especially not from someone like him. But she had no reason to be scared anymore. _Fear cuts deeper than swords_. “I’m a woman grown now,” she told him. “And a better fighter than you. I’m not going to the crypts.”

“You always were a fighter, aye? Might as well die with the rest of us.” He took a sip of his ale.

She almost kept walking; she wanted to see Jon more than she wanted to talk to Sandor Clegane. But something made her sit down next to him, and she reached out her arm for the flagon. When he handed it to her, she took a long drink; it was terrible and bitter, but she liked how warm it felt against the cold winter air.

“Got something to say, or did you just want to steal my ale?” He asked her.

“Why are you here?” Arya didn’t understand why the Hound had come at all; in the days since he arrived with Daenerys’ men, he had been even more irritable and mean than she remembered.

“I come to die protecting your silly castle and that’s the thanks I get?”

“The Hound never would have died for anyone.”

“The Hound died fighting for _you_. Or did you forget you left me for dead?”

Arya could never forget that day. Weeks before, Sandor had shown her how to give the “gift” of mercy; one quick stab that would put someone out of their misery. But when he asked her to give him that, she couldn’t. A part of her wanted to let him suffer; he didn’t deserve the mercy of a quick death after everything he’d done – Mycah wasn’t given that, so why should he? But another part of her couldn’t bring herself to kill him. She had dreamt and prayed to the god of death to do that, but when the time came, he wasn’t even himself anymore. He had sat there, covered in blood and cuts, crying and _begging_ her to do it. It felt so wrong to hurt someone so defenseless.

Instead of admitting that to the Hound, she said, “Brienne never meant me any harm. I would have been better off with her than you.”

“Fair enough,” he said, laughing. “You would have been better off with anyone.”

“How did you survive?” Arya asked. When she had left him alone in the Riverlands, she was sure he would die there.

“A Septon of the Seven found me. After that I found Thoros and Beric; that’s why I’m here. Joined the Brotherhood without Banners.” He took another sip of ale.

Just the name _Brotherhood without Banners_ made Arya angry; the Brotherhood had sold Gendry to the Red Woman, even though she begged them not to. Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr had been on her list once; but that had been years ago, and Thoros was already dead. And Arya hadn’t repeated the names since the first night she came back to Winterfell.

“You believe in the Lord of Light?” She couldn’t imagine the Hound believing in anything.

“I don’t know about R’hllor, and I don’t care for Beric’s sanctimonious bullshit, but I’ve seen things in the flames. Wights and monsters and fire.” As he said the words, his eyes seemed to drift off into space. Flames were the only thing he had been scared of in the time Arya knew him. “Shouldn’t you believe in R’hllor as much as anyone? Didn’t the Red Priestess bring your bastard brother back from the dead?”

Arya took the flagon from his hands and gulped. The Red Woman had been on her list, too, for taking Gendry. But she knew the stories people heard were true, she had heard it from Sansa and Jon; her brother had been dead, stabbed through the heart, and Melisandre had somehow brought him back. “I don’t know what gods I believe in anymore.” She had spent the last years of her life devoted to the god of death, but she had left that behind in Braavos; a part of her had never wanted that, either. Even across the Narrow Sea, she dreamt of being a wolf, running through Westeros. Her father had taught her to worship the Old Gods, and her mother prayed to the Seven in a Sept, but R’hllor had brought her brother back from the dead.

“Best you pick one to believe in before you die tonight.”

Footsteps further down the parapet caught Arya’s attention, and she turned her head to see Beric Dondarrion coming to join them. He sat down and smiled at her as if they were old friends. “I see you found your way home,” he said to her.

“No thanks to you or your stupid _brothers_.” She shot back at him.

“Still angry about the bastard boy?” He asked, his shoulders slumping forward, and he quickly turned his eyes away from hers.

“You sold my friend to that witch! He wanted to be one of you and you abandoned him!” She hadn’t realized just how angry she was until now.

“I did what I had to do. I was keeping a promise to your father.”

“My father never would have sold someone!”

“I had no choice! My men were starving and Tywin’s men were burning the Riverlands to the ground. I didn’t want to sell your friend, but I had to.”

Arya didn’t know what to say to him. The lines of guilt were written plain on his face, and the words sounded hollow as he said them. _He knows he’s wrong_ , Arya thought as she looked in his sad eyes. She tried to stay mad, but looking at him all she could feel was pity.

Beric took the flagon from her and drank. For a while, the three of them just sat against the walls, passing the ale around in silence as the cold air burned against their cheeks.

“I’m going to die tonight and I’m sitting here with you two depressing shits,” the Hound finally said to break the silence.

“The Lord of Light brought us all here, Sandor.”

“Your Red Priest is dead now, Beric. If you die, you stay that way, like the rest of us.”

“R’hllor brought me back six times for a reason. If I die here, this is where I was always meant to die.”

Arya stood up and turned to walk back toward the inner castle.

“Where are you going?” The Hound called after her.

“You said it yourself; I could die tonight. I don’t want to spend my last night with the you two.”

 

She walked through empty hallways and corridors, working her way down to Winterfell’s forge. Gendry hadn’t given her the weapon she asked him to make yet, and at the War Council had said he would leave it there. She quickened her pace to a jog, hoping he’d still be there.

“Looking for this?” He said, startling her as she entered the forge.

“Yes, actually.” She said when she caught her breath. She took the staff from him and twirled it over in both her hands, getting a feel for its weight. It was twice as long as Needle, but still light enough for her to wield without tiring quickly; and when she ran her finger along the edge of the dragonglass blade, it was razor sharp.

“Good enough for you, m’lady?” He asked, teasing.

“It’s perfect,” she replied, too happy with it to tease him in return. “Thank you.”

“It was nothing really,” he said, “anything for you.” He said the words casually, but they made Arya’s breath catch. Seeing her reaction, Gendry’s cheeks turned red as he realized what he had said.

“I saw Beric Dondarrion today,” she said, trying to move passed it.

“Did you hurt him?” Gendry said, half serious, half joking.

“Not yet, anyway.” Arya laughed. “What _did_ the Red Woman want with you?” It had always seemed odd to her that a Priestess of R’hllor would want a poor boy from Flea Bottom.

The ease faded from Gendry’s face, turning his lips into a frown. “If I tell you, do you promise not to tell anyone?”

“Yes,” she said quickly. She hadn’t expected him to be so serious.

“At first I didn’t care when Davos told me not to tell, but then I met Queen Daenerys and . . . you’re sure you won’t tell anyone? Not even your family?”

“I promise.”

He looked around nervously, then pulled her closer to him, leaning in to whisper. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her ear, and a blush crept up her neck. “I’m Robert Baratheon’s bastard.”

“ _What?!_ You’re King Robert’s-”

“Shhh!” He cut her off. “Don’t say it so loud.”

No one was around, but she listened to him and lowered her voice. “But how?”

“My mother was a whore in one of Robert’s favorite brothels. The rest is pretty obvious . . .” He said awkwardly.

“That’s why Cersei wanted to find you?” She said, thinking back to the night Yoren died, when she and Gendry had been trying to go to the Night’s Watch.

“Yeah,” he said. “I don’t know how she knew if I didn’t even know myself, but she must have. Melisandre knew, too; she must have learned from Stannis. She wanted to sacrifice me for my blood, because my father was King.”

“But if Robert was your father, that means you could be King! He never had any legitimate sons or daughters, and all his brothers are dead. You have as much right as Cersei Lannister or Daenerys Targaryen to sit on the Iron Throne.”

“That’s why you can’t tell _anyone_. I don’t think Cersei or Daenerys would set aside their armies for me.”

“I promise I won’t tell anyone,” Arya said. She had never seen Gendry look so afraid.

“I wouldn’t have told you if I didn’t trust you more than anyone, but still . . .”

“You trust me? More than anyone?” Arya said, her voice soft.

“We’re family, right? You said it yourself. I know I didn’t listen at the time, but I made it to Winterfell with you eventually-”

Arya stood on her toes and kissed him; her lips soft against his. She had never done that before, with anyone, and wasn’t sure why she chose to do it now. Doubting herself, she pulled away from him.

“What was that?” Gendry said, his face flush.

“Did you not want me to?” She asked nervously.

Instead of answering, he placed his hands on her cheeks and kissed her back, harder than she had kissed him. Instinctively her mouth opened under his, and she felt his tongue against her teeth. Before she knew what she was doing, she could feel her hands fumbling with the buttons of his tunic, trying to get his shirt loose.

He pulled away from her. “Are you sure you want to . . . I don’t want to force . . .” He was stumbling over his words.

“I’m sure,” she said, even though she wasn’t.

Then they were kissing again, and he was pulling his shirt off. She looked from his chest to his face and down to his chest again, taking it in. Then she pulled her own shirt off, and he did the same. His eyes caught on the scars that covered her stomach, and all of a sudden all she wanted to do was cover herself with her hands. How could she have forgotten that he would see them? Who could want her now? But then his eyes moved back to hers, and he kissed her even harder than before. The scars didn’t matter to Gendry. Now she was sure.

Afterward, she fell asleep with Gendry’s arms wrapped around her, exhausted.

As soon as she closed her eyes, the dream started. Her howl pierced through the winter air like the wind, hundreds of wolves behind her joining in the cry. She took a deep breath and took in the scents around her; stone, men, fear, death. The further North her pack travelled, the more the smell of death overtook everything else. And she knew they were close now, so close that she could hardly smell anything else. The wolves around her knew it, too; the smell of fear came from her wolves.

She couldn’t turn back. Instead, she broke into a gallop and led her pack onward. The ground beneath her feet was soft with fallen snow, which felt foreign and strange to her paws. Before, the land had always been hot and wet with rain, rivers flowing all around. She hadn’t seen a river for days, now, only small streams that had iced over. The woods were different, too; the trees smelled different, and older.

But they were also familiar. She had been here before, years before, when she was just a pup. That’s why she had come all this way. And even though she had never run through these woods before, she knew she was almost there. Instead of a steady gallop, she began racing through the woods, the trees beginning to thin as she went.

Then the woods broke, and she raced out into a snow coated clearing where she could see for miles around her. The smell of death was still overwhelming in the air, but now the smell of men and stone was too. The wolves behind her were uneasy at the sight of so many huts where men should be, but she felt drawn to the place. Tilting her head up, looking miles into the distance, she could see it. The towers and walls as high as her eyes could see, the familiar walls she remembered from all those years ago.

 _Winterfell_ , a voice in her head said, desperate and full of longing. _Arya. Home_.


	19. THEON II

The canopy of trees kept Theon dry as he stood at the center of Winterfell’s Godswood. Beyond the protection of the trees, snow had begun to fall and the wind was picking up. Soon, there would be an ice storm surrounding Winterfell. But standing by the heart tree, the air still felt warm and inviting.

He was waiting off to the side, not wanting to overhear as Sansa said goodbye to Bran. No matter how close he felt to Sansa, Theon could hardly stand to be near her little brother. The guilt weighed on him always, but when he had to see the little prince’s face. . . Bran tried to hide it, to look at him as if he had never taken Winterfell, but Theon could see the way Bran would flinch at his slightest movement. _He is afraid of me_. Theon wished Bran would just be mad or angry; that would hurt less.

It had been Sansa that brought Theon back to himself, after Ramsay had made him Reek; but Bran had been there for him, too, whether he imagined it or not. The Godswood was the only place he could find comfort as Reek, and he would pray in front of the weirwood for hours. Most times, the face carved into the tree seemed cold and impartial, like a lonely god laughing at Theon’s insignificance. But other times, he would look into the eyes and see Bran’s, but older and wiser, sad and lonely. The trees even seemed to whisper to him sometimes, _Theon_ , like they didn’t want him to forget. He had thought he was going crazy; that he so desperately wanted Bran’s forgiveness that he saw him everywhere he looked.

But when he had first seen Bran after coming back to Winterfell, his breath caught in his chest. The way he looked, so much older and weighed down by time, was exactly how he looked in the tree. Then Sansa had told Theon about Bran’s connection to the Old Gods. Now Theon didn’t know if it really had been Bran, or if it was all in his head. And if it was, did Bran remember, or even know, what he had done?

Theon sat down beside the warm pool of spring water and carefully took his gloves off to dip his hands in the water. He had never taken the gloves off outside of his chambers before; the ruin that Ramsay had left of his once agile hands hurt him more than any of his other scars. Even though the Ironborn mocked horsemen and archers, Theon had sat a mount better than most Northmen and could hit anything with a bow and arrow. But now, with hands that could hardly hold a cup, much less lead a horse or aim straight, he had nothing to offer Bran. _You still have your life_ , he reminded himself, _you can give him that_. Theon would gladly die to right his wrongs.

He felt a cold nose against his cheek, and turned to see Ghost nuzzling him. Even when he had stolen Winterfell out from Bran and Rickon, their direwolves had always been warm to him. He wondered if they somehow knew what he really wanted, even when he didn’t. Bran’s direwolf was gone now, though; Theon didn’t know how, but he knew Summer never would have left Bran unless he died. That made Theon feel even more guilty. Instead of wallowing on the thought, he nuzzled his face into Ghost and brushed through the wolf’s fur with his hands. Jon’s direwolf had grown much larger than Summer or Shaggydog, and towered over a sitting Theon; but he wasn’t scary. His presence was calming to Theon, like a watchful guardian over him.

Theon laughed to himself; the idea that anything of Jon’s could comfort him was almost absurd. The two of them had been at odds their whole lives; fighting each other for Robb’s brotherhood, Ned Stark’s affection, for a family. But Jon had always won their fights; Ned Stark had never looked at Theon as if he were a son, and Robb had died hating him. Before, that had made him bitter; now it just made him sad.

The water of the pool was still enough for Theon to stare into his own reflection. It hardly belonged to him really; the brittle white hair, missing teeth, scarred cheeks, tired eyes; none of that belonged to Theon Greyjoy, who had never taken anything seriously, much less his own life. The face that stared up at him from the water was the _thing_ that Ramsay had created, Reek. But he wasn’t Reek anymore, just as he wasn’t the boy Theon Greyjoy. So why did he still carry all of their guilt?

“Theon?” He heard Sansa from behind his shoulder. Her voice sounded stuffy and her eyes were red.

“Are you okay?” He said, jumping to his feet.

“I’m alright,” she said, wiping her sleeve under her nose.

He knew she wasn’t, but he also knew there was nothing he could do to comfort her. An army of dead men and monsters was coming to destroy her home and kill her family. That she could still pretend to be okay for him amazed Theon; he had seen her go through so much, yet she always thought of him before herself. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her it would be okay, but stopped himself short. How could he make such promises? The only thing he could do for her was keep Bran safe, and he silently swore a vow to do so with his life.

The direwolf at his side seemed to feel Sansa’s distress, too, and quickly trotted through the snow to nuzzle her hand. As soon as he came over, she bent down to return his affection and began to smile. Now Theon understood why Ghost had seemed so comforting to him; he was Jon’s direwolf, but a part of him had become Sansa’s, too. In the same way Jon had stayed his hand because Sansa asked him to, Jon’s wolf had comforted Theon because of her. _At least someone good finally loves her_ , he thought wistfully.

“Are you leaving now?” He asked.

“Soon,” she replied. “I need to help everyone settle into the crypts. But first I wanted to, to . . .” The words caught on her tongue, but Theon knew what she wanted – to say goodbye. Eventually Sansa found the words, “Arya says that saying goodbye is stupid because we’ll all see each other when the battle’s over and we’ve won, and she wouldn’t let me say a proper goodbye.” She was beginning to cry again. “But I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I never got to say it to Bran or-”

“You’ll see Bran when the sun comes up, Sansa, I promise.” _But will I?_ He thought morbidly.

“And you?” She asked, seemingly reading his thoughts.

“I’ll try my best,” he answered, trying to sound confident, but it didn’t seem to comfort her much.

“If . . . If something happens to either of us,” she paused, swallowing tears, “I wanted you to know that . . . that you’re a brother to me. Stark or Greyjoy, it doesn’t matter. You’re my brother and I love you.” She let out a choked sob.

Without thinking, he rushed forward to hug her. Theon didn’t know what to tell her. She meant more to him than anyone ever had. From the time he was just a boy, he had always looked at her longingly; she was the only chance he ever had to be a Stark, if Lord Eddard had offered him her hand in marriage. Instead, she had gone south betrothed to Prince Joffrey and he had gone back to Pyke, turning his back on the Starks in the name of the Greyjoys.

What Sansa gave him now was beyond any honorary place as a Stark he ever could have received if she had become his bride; he was her _family_ now. He shut his eyes and held her tightly, feeling the trembling sobs she tried to hold back. A part of him was sure this was the last time he would ever get the chance.

Then she pulled away from him. “And I know you think that Bran hates you, or that he could never forgive you. But he loves you, Theon, you’re his brother as much as Robb or Bran or Rickon.”

Theon struggled to believe her, and knew she was only trying to comfort him, but it made him feel better anyway. He wiped a tear from his cheek and tried not to cry anymore.

“I should be going,” Sansa said awkwardly. “I’ll see you when dawn breaks, okay?” She said the words both hopeful and mournful; a promise she wanted to make, but knew he would break.

“When dawn breaks,” he said back, trying his best to smile. “I’ll see you then.”

With that, Sansa turned her back and headed out of the Godswood. Theon watched her for a moment, then turned and walked back toward Bran.

Theon walked up to him slowly, unsure what he wanted to say. He sat beside Bran’s chair, trying to work up his courage. Eventually, he steeled himself and said, “Do you hate me?” He hated the way he sounded as he said it; small and self-pitying, as if Bran owed him forgiveness.

But the boy didn’t seem angry at the question. Instead, he just stared at Theon with his sad and old eyes, as if he were looking into Theon and seeing everything he had ever or would ever do. And then he said, “When you took Winterfell, when you killed Ser Rodrik . . . At first I thought I did.” Bran paused, letting his words hang in the air, then continued, “But now, after everything you’ve been through, and the way you saved Sansa . . . You said you’d give your life for me tonight if you have to. You’re my brother, Theon. And . . . And if Robb were still here, he would be proud of you.”

The memory of Robb hit Theon like a blow to the chest. For a moment he was speechless, only able to stare teary-eyed at Bran without a word. “Thank you,” he said, gathering his voice. “Thank you.” He stood and hugged Bran, and felt himself begin to cry again. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” was all Bran could say through his own tears.

The battle had not even begun, yet Theon already felt exhausted. His broken body ached with the scars of everything he’d done, of the mistakes he’d made. He had confronted some of his regrets already, but he still had another family to say goodbye to.

For the second time that night, Theon kneeled by the pool of water created by Winterfell’s hot springs; even in winter, the water was warm. He cupped some between his hands and splashed it on his face, letting it drip through his hair and down his cheeks, tasting the fresh earthy water. _Don’t die so far from the sea_. That’s what Yara had told him once, when she tried to save him. The water running down his chin now was not the sea, it didn’t even taste of salt, but Theon thought it would be enough. He had never grown up on the sea as most Ironborn did, had never felt the call of the waves like his sister did. But he did find a home in the one pool within Winterfell; coming here often to wash away everything that burdened him. He had even become a man here, laying with a woman for the first time. Theon had never really been a Greyjoy or a Stark; but Winterfell’s Godswood was the one place he had been both.

 _I’m sorry I left you_ , he said in a silent goodbye to Yara, _I’m sorry I’ll never see you again. I love you_.

Kneeling before the heart tree, Theon finally laid his sins to rest. He was who he was. _Theon_. That was all that mattered.


	20. JAIME II

He and Tyrion stayed by the fire even after everyone else turned in; the soft warmth was calming his nerves, and the company of his brother was something he hadn’t enjoyed for a long time. Jaime had almost forgotten just how many cups Tyrion could drink.

Davos had turned in first, complaining of sore joints and tired eyes; the man hid it well, but Jaime could see the weariness Davos carried with him. His only son had died on the Blackwater years before, something he seemed to have forgiven Tyrion for, but Jaime was all too familiar with that kind of hurt. Not that he had been a father to his three children, but there had been just a moment before Myrcella died . . . He found himself wondering if Davos ever thought about going home, to the wife he had left behind to follow Stannis Baratheon. For the first time in his life, that was something Jaime did not want to do.

Podrick and Brienne – _Ser_ Podrick and _Ser_ Brienne – had turned in next. Jaime had never seen Brienne drink as much as she had, and was surprised he managed to keep her up as long as he did. It had been years since he had properly gotten to speak with her; they had met briefly at Riverrun and then even more briefly in King’s Landing, neither meeting ending as he wished they could. Tonight, he finally got to give Brienne a proper goodbye. And he was sure it was goodbye; before he lost his hand, Jaime would have charged into the night fearlessly, trusting in his swordsmanship to carry him through. But now, with just one hand and hardly any pride, he had no such beliefs. He would be dead before morning.

As soon as Brienne said she was turning in, Tormund seemed to lose interest in the night and left. Something about the wildling chaffed against Jaime; he was too brash, loud and overwhelming. The Freefolk were very different from those raised south of the wall, but still Jaime felt Tormund was excessive even compared to his own people.

Now he sat by the fire alone, except for Tyrion. His brother was still drinking, but Jaime had put his cup away and was letting his head clear.

“Do you ever think of him? Father?” Jaime asked, watching the flames dance along the logs. There had been a moment earlier in the night, when Tyrion had _joked_ about Lord Tywin, and Jaime couldn’t shake his father from his thoughts.

“Every day. Any time I do anything, I can hear his voice in my head, disowning me for helping a Targaryen, Aerys’ own daughter, for dishonoring my mother _again_ , for not being clever enough. For being a dwarf.”

“Do you ever miss him?”

“Miss him? I’ve felt many things over killing my father, but never regret.”

“Sometimes I do,” Jaime admitted. In the last several days, he had shared more secrets than he ever had. Everyone knew the truth of him and Cersei, and the truth of the Mad King; and he had told Eddard Stark’s son the truth of himself. It felt like a piece of him had been removed; the boy who built himself around the lie of Kingslayer forcefully taken. But a part of him wanted to keep pulling at the wound that had been opened, to share the last secrets he kept and be done with it.

“Sometimes I think we had two very different fathers,” Tyrion replied, a note of anger in his voice.

“He was awful to me, too,” Jaime said.

“Only because he loved you.”

“I’m not sure our father loved anyone; especially not his children.”

“Perhaps he didn’t love you, but he _wanted_ you.” The note of anger had grown into a wave of bitterness. “You were the perfect son, his golden lion. He yelled at you and fought with you because you joined the Kingsguard and left him with me for an heir. He would’ve broken the laws of gods and men to see you inherit Casterly Rock, and did the same to keep it from me.” His brother’s voice had turned to a snarl.

“I never wanted Casterly Rock. I would have given it to you if father gave me the choice.”

“I know,” Tyrion said, his anger seeming to fade as quick as it had come. “You never wanted any of it. But I always did; I dreamed of the day I could sign my name as Lord of Casterly Rock. Now that I can, it seems so empty; who cares that I’m Lord of an abandoned castle surrounded by enemies?”

“If it makes you feel better, my dream of being a White Knight of the Kingsguard never quite happened either,” Jaime said laughing.

“And we’re both going to die in this godforsaken castle, anyway.” Both of them were laughing now, encouraged by how much wine and ale they’d drank. It wasn’t the first time they’d laughed over their fate; two Lannisters dying to save the Starks in Winterfell.

Sobering up first, Tyrion said, “It was a nice thing you did, knighting Brienne before battle. The Jaime I knew never would have done it.”

“I guess I’ve changed,” Jaime said, holding up his golden hand as proof.

“And what of our sweet sister?” Tyrion said mockingly. “You’ve run back to her so many times I hardly thought this would be different, yet you look at Brienne of Tarth so longingly . . .”

Jaime felt his cheeks go red. “I loved Cersei my entire life. But after Myrcella and Tommen . . . and then when she refused to bring our armies North, I couldn’t stay.”

“All the horrible things she’s done and you choose now to be honorable?”

“It’s not like I didn’t care,” Jaime said, thinking back on all the times he had almost left. “Every time she would do something to hurt me or someone I was close to, I pulled away. But for so long, Cersei was all I had. We were so similar as kids, two halves of a whole . . . but she changed, and I changed, and I don’t know . . . I slowly fell out of love.”

“Even with the baby?” Tyrion asked, his voice cautious.

“Please don’t remind me,” Jaime said, his voice cracking. “But it’s not like I had a choice, right? What was I supposed to do? Stay with her, let her keep hurting people, so I could be a father?”

“We all have to make sacrifices,” Tyrion said, looking at Jaime with eyes full of sympathy. “I still don’t understand how you could ever love her. Fuck her, yes,” his brother quipped, “but love her? I know you think you were so similar as kids, but I never saw it that way. She was always so hateful, her and father both. I was never more than a monster to them. But you always looked out for me. I never would have survived them if not for you.” Perhaps the fear of death was making Tyrion sentimental, but Jaime found his brother’s words touching nonetheless. But they also made him feel a familiar pang of guilt.

“Have you ever loved anyone?” He asked, ignoring the sick feeling in his stomach. Jaime knew he tread on dangerous ground, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“I don’t think I have,” Tyrion answered, turning his eyes to the floor.

“Not Lady Stark?” Jaime knew very little of his brother’s marriage to Sansa, except that it was unconsummated, but his brother always seemed fond of her.

“I almost did. She was always very kind and pleasant, but she never wanted me. Every time I looked at her, I saw it in her eyes: disgust. It’s very hard to love someone who doesn’t want you.”

“And your Dragon Queen?” Jaime had seen the way Tyrion looked at Daenerys, as if she was more than just his Queen.

“She could never want me either,” he said bitterly. “Too busy making eyes at Jon Snow to look down.” Then he paused, “I probably shouldn’t mention that little affair.”

“The honorable Ned Stark’s son in the bed of a Targaryen?” Jaime had to laugh; it seemed almost impossible to believe one of the high and mighty Starks could fall so low.

“It’s best we keep that between us though,” Tyrion said, “you know how queens are when you spread their secrets.”

“How is your queen?” Jaime would be lying if he said the idea of a Targaryen with dragons did not worry him.

“She’s nothing to fear,” Tyrion said quickly, seeming to understand why Jaime would be afraid. “I’ll admit sometimes her temper runs hotter than I would prefer, but she listens to me in all matters. As long as I am her Hand, she’ll be a good queen.”

“She listens to you in all things, yet she doesn’t love you?”

“Daenerys is still young; uncomfortable with being a Queen sometimes, and new to Westeros. She was eager for someone to help her, and there I was. But that’s all I could ever be to her; a clever Hand. It’s for the best she’s never humored me; I always mistake desire for love, only to realize what they desired was Lannister, not me.”

The guilt sat in Jaime’s stomach like a stone. “That’s not true.”

“Really? You were there when that _whore_ tricked me into marrying her.” Tyrion said the words with such hatred it made Jaime flinch. “I don’t think I could ever trust a girl again after Tysha lied to me.” Seeing the horrified look on Jaime’s face, he quickly said, “not that I blame you, brother, you were only trying to help.”

 _You were only trying to help_. The words rang in his ears. Lord Tywin had always been a cold man; Jaime had never seen his father smile, and even in anger his face remained still as stone. He hardly grimaced when Jaime swore away his birthright. But when Jaime told his father of Tyrion and Tysha, Lord Tywin’s whole body seemed to burn with rage. His father had never struck him across the face before, but in that moment he hit Jaime’s jaw with the back of his hand so fiercely Jaime could still feel the blow.

“Are you okay?” Tyrion asked, concern on his face, and Jaime knew he must look horrible. He could feel his forehead dampening with sweat and his skin felt feverish _. I’ve had too much to drink_ , he thought to himself.

“I lied,” he heard himself saying, “I made the whole thing up.”

“I know,” Tyrion sounded confused. “You look awful Jaime, what’s wrong?”

“No, you don’t know. I never told you.” He had kept the secret, told the lie, so many times in his life; there was moments when it even became the truth to him. But the guilt he felt would never go away; always there to remind Jaime what really happened. Now it seemed to sit on his chest like a thousand pounds, his heart beating desperately against the crushing weight.

“Never told me what?” Tyrion’s confusion broke into curiosity.

“Tysha . . .” Jaime struggled to find the right words. He had thought in his head a thousand times what he might say if he ever told Tyrion the truth, but he always told himself that he would never tell, and push the thoughts away. “She wasn’t a whore. She was just a girl; a poor scared girl who thought we were her heroes. We really did save her that night, and she fell in love with you. She married you because you were her hero. But when I told father . . .” This was the hard part to tell. “You had gone off and married some random peasant from Lannisport, and he was furious. He told me to lie, to convince you it had all been a ruse.” Just saying the words seemed to calm Jaime’s rushing heart, and he felt the ringing in his ears start to fade.

Until he turned his eyes from the floor and looked at his brother.

Tyrion’s face was frozen in horror or shock; his mouth and eyes twisted into an awful snarl, and the scar that cut across his face and ruined his nose seemed even uglier than before.

 

“I didn’t think he would hurt her! He promised he wouldn’t,” suddenly Jaime felt an overwhelming urge to justify what he’d done. “He hit me and said I had to lie . . . I didn’t have a choice. _I had to lie_. But I never . . . If I had any idea . . . I never thought he could . . . I never meant for her to get hurt.”

Jaime expected his brother to yell or cry, but instead he just sat there, still as stone. Then he looked straight at Jaime, his one green eye burning like wildfire, “I was Hand of the King to your idiot son for _years_ , years that he tormented me and mocked me. And Cersei just let him, encouraged him even. _Tried to have me killed_. And I did nothing. No, I didn’t do nothing – I _helped_ them. They would have died at the hands of the city mobs or Stannis Baratheon if not for me. They tried to kill me and I _saved_ them. Because Joffrey was _your_ son and Cersei was _your_ lover. I kept those monsters safe because of _you_. And the one time you had a chance to do something for me, you couldn’t even stand up for an innocent young girl?”

Jaime didn’t know what to say. He tried several times to form words, to find anything at all to answer his brother, but his mouth utterly failed him. Tyrion had said his words with such hatred, it made Jaime’s blood run cold, and they stung as only the truth could. Why had he stood aside and let Tywin do such awful things? Why had he stood aside and let Cersei do such awful things?

Instead of waiting for Jaime to respond, Tyrion spoke again, “If you don’t die tonight, and I _hope_ you do _, I will kill you myself_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out Tyrion is kind of a boring character without Tysha and GRRM knew what he was doing . . .


	21. SANSA IV

The wind and cold had grown more intense while Sansa was in the Godswood; stepping back out into the courtyard, it whipped against her tear streaked cheeks and made her eyes burn even worse. She pulled the hood of her cloak up and tightened it around her face.

She knew she needed to go to the crypts soon, to help lead everyone below, but she needed to do something first; and besides, she had spent the last months of her life preparing everything for this night. Days’ worth of food, clothes, and chamber pots had been moved into the crypts in case the battle turned into a siege, and makeshift beds made of sheets and blankets had been set up as well. Everyone in Winterfell had also been taught where the entrance to the crypts was, and how to enter them; many people had already made their way down, while others lingered in courtyards or along the walls, saying goodbyes to their mothers, fathers, sons, or daughters. Sansa herself had done some of that; trying to say goodbye to Arya, and then Theon and Bran; but now she was trying to say a different sort of goodbye. In the Godswood she had seen to the living; now she wanted to see the dead.

Many people had been praying within the three vast acres of Winterfell’s Godswood, but Sansa found the Sept completely abandoned; everyone in the North preferred the Old Gods to the Faith of the Seven, and no one but her had even been in the Sept since her and Jon rebuilt it; the only reason it had been built the first time was for Lady Catelyn. That’s why Sansa still came, even though she had drifted away from the Seven in favor of the Old Gods. It was the one place where she felt close to her mother. Her father’s bones had been returned to his home, and a statue built in his likeness for the crypt; but her mother had been thrown into a river, left adrift in a mockery of the proper Tully burial. There was no statue where Sansa could look upon her mother’s likeness, no bones to say goodbye over. But the ornate glasswork made to represent the Mother of the Seven always made her feel close to her own mother, and Sansa would sit in the Sept often.

Now, kneeling before the Seven, she prayed to her mother. _Please, help me. I don’t know what to do. I always wanted to be a lady like you, but now I’m so scared. Everyone in Winterfell, in the North, all depend on us tonight. Jon and I_ . . . she remembered her mother probably did not want to hear of Jon . . . _He’s going to be fighting, and so is Arya. And Bran, he’s going to be bait for the Night King . . . They could all die and I’m going to be in the crypts. Sometimes I feel so alone, after you and father and Robb and Rickon. Jon and Arya and Bran are all I have left. I don’t know if you can hear me, mother, but please . . . watch over them, don’t let them die. Please_.

Then she turned to the rest of the gods and prayed for everyone she could think of. For Jon, Arya, and Bran. For the men and women who would fight and die that night. For those in the crypts. She even prayed for Daenerys and her dragons, that they would light the night red and keep her people safe. And the Dothraki and Unsullied; she hadn’t seen them in the Godswood or the Sept, and wondered if they had gods of their own. It would be awful to die so far from home, in a place they hardly knew, not even their gods to watch over them. Finally, Sansa prayed for the wights that were marching on her home. _They were people once, just like me. I don’t know if I even believe in you anymore_ , she said, looking at the Stranger, _but if you are there, please let their souls rest_.

She wiped a tear from her cheek and tried to look stern as she left the Sept and headed toward the South Gate. A small group of men had been gathered at the North Gate to keep watch and blow the horn if White Walkers were seen, but most of the men had gathered at the other end of the castle; the wind and cold were less fierce, and for hundreds of years, the men watching Winterfell had expected invading armies to come from the South, not North. Everything by that end of the castle was much more prepared for a fight, and even though Sansa had overseen months’ worth of preparing the North Gate, the geography of the castle made it much easier for armies to gather on the southernmost walls. As soon as the horn sounded, and even before that, the men would slowly take their posts along the walls, but for now they were all gathering at the South Gate. Her and Jon had agreed to meet there, to see the men before the battle started.

 _Jon . . ._ where was he? Sansa looked around nervously, trying to see his familiar black cloak amongst all the soldiers. If he wasn’t here, something important must have happened, but what? She had seen him leave with Sam after the war council, and then Sansa hadn’t seen him since. _What if I never see him again?_ She felt a sudden panic rise in her chest. They had seen each other briefly, exchanged passing words in the halls and in front of lords and ladies in meetings, but the last time they had truly spoken had been the day Daenerys arrived, when they had argued. Sansa and Jon had argued before; sometimes it felt like they argued all the time. Sometimes Sansa would intentionally start fights with him; well, not quite _intentionally_. She never set out to fight with him, but she knew how to provoke him, and subconsciously it would just . . . _happen_. For so long, with Joffrey and Littlefinger and Ramsay, she could never say anything she was thinking, or else risk a fist to her cheeks or stomach, or worse. But Jon was never like that; no matter how angry she made him, he would let her talk or even yell at him. Then he would yell back, and she would yell again, and so on. Until one of them went too far, and the other would always stop the fight to just _be there_. Jon knew that Sansa’s past made her that way, and she knew how anxious being King made him; after his men had killed him, he was always worried he wasn’t leading well, or that his men would turn against him. The way they understood each other made it easy to let go of their anger.

But their last fight had been different. It wasn’t over something small or forgettable; it was over the fate of the North. How could they move on from a fight that had no foreseeable end? Sansa knew that Jon had done what he thought best, and he did not have many choices, but how could the North go back to serving the Iron Throne? But if they refused to kneel, they would make Jon a liar and Daenerys and her dragons angry. Just thinking about it made Sansa want to put her head in her hands and cry.

“Little bird,” a familiar voice made Sansa turn around.

“Sandor,” she said in return. It had been years since Sansa had seen him; even though he had arrived in Winterfell with Daenerys’ men, they had yet to cross paths.

“What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be in the crypts? You never were a fighter like your sister.”

“I’m not a little bird anymore,” she said, looking in his face, “I’m the Lady of Winterfell and these are my people.”

“Your people will all be dead by morning,” Sandor said.

“Why do you always do this?” Sansa asked, keeping her eyes locked on his. “You only talk to me to hurt me. To hurt everyone.”

“I _hurt_ you?” He laughed. “Joffrey and Littlefinger and Ramsay hurt you. I _helped_ you. If you had left King’s Landing with me when I offered, I could have saved you.”

“You would have hurt me the same way they did,” she paused for a moment, to watch his reaction, but his face gave nothing away. “And don’t try to deny it. I saw the way you looked at me. You didn’t want to help me, you wanted me. That night you almost forced me to . . .” She couldn’t finish her sentence; the memory of that night, of all the nights with Ramsay, was too much.

She looked around quickly, to see if anyone had overheard, but all of the men seemed too distracted saying goodbyes or preparing for their deaths to notice her and the Hound. Then she turned her eyes back to his face, waiting for him to try and defend himself. Instead, he reached out to grab her hand; he moved slowly and gently, but instinctively Sansa flinched back from his grasp.

Whatever he would have said was lost when Sansa heard a man on the wall shout, “Open the gate! Open the gate!”

Everyone turned toward the gate, craning their eyes upward to try and see what was happening, but no one moved to open the gate.

Sansa ran toward the steps and took them two at a time until she was on top of the wall. “What is it?” She called to the watcher on the wall, pulling her hood down so he could see the red of her hair and know it was her.

“There’s someone out there,” he answered, pointing out into the night at a small bright spot in the dark. Sansa was shocked that whoever it was had managed to keep their torch lit in the wind. “We have to let them in, my lady. I know we shouldn’t be opening the gate with the army of the dead so close, but we can’t just leave them out there.”

“Of course,” Sansa said, already moving back down the steps. “Open the gate!” She called to the men manning it. This time, seeing who called the order, the men obeyed.

As the gate slowly opened, Sansa could just barely make out a galloping horse heading towards them, but she couldn’t see the rider. She couldn’t imagine who would be foolish enough to be riding in such awful weather, much less towards Winterfell and an army of dead men.

“Hurry up!” One of the men on the wall called out.

As soon as he made it through the gate, the poor horse collapsed, throwing its rider as he fell. Sansa rushed forward to help the animal; his black fur was covered in sweat that had frozen over, and he was so thin that his ribs and hips poked out distressingly. “Get him to the crypts,” she said to the men around her. Almost all of the horses from the stable were outside of the gates waiting for the White Walkers, and their grooms either getting ready to fight or in the crypts; there would be no point in bringing him to a stall.

 The rider was wrapped in layers of fur, their cloak covering up everything but the eyes; even in the dark, Sansa recognized their dark red shine.

“Melisandre.”

“Lady Sansa,” the red woman replied. Where everyone else was shaking from the cold under their furs, Melisandre hardly seemed to notice the biting wind and falling snow. Just standing next to her, Sansa could feel warmth spread over her like a blanket.

“Why are you here?” 

“R’hllor brought me,” Melisandre answered, her voice self-assured and arrogant.

Sansa paused for a beat, unsure how to reply. R’hllor had brought Jon back from the dead; but Melisandre had burned Shireen Baratheon alive in his name. “Why did he bring you?” Sansa asked.

“To save you.”

“Save us? How?”

“Fire.”

Sansa didn’t know what to do. Jon had banished Melisandre under threat of death, and for good reason; what kind of monster would burn a child alive? But the priestess had power, and her god had shown up for Sansa before.

And where was Jon now? Why wasn’t he there to make this choice himself?

“Follow the battlements to the North Gate,” she said to Melisandre. “Ser Davos will be there.” If Jon wasn’t going to face Melisandre, it should be the Onion Knight.

For just a second, the priestess’ face seemed to fall, the arrogance briefly gone from her eyes. Then she said, “You made the right choice, little bird.”

As Melisandre walked up the steps and moved north on the battlements, the men began closing the gate. Looking around her, Sansa noticed that the Hound had disappeared. The soldiers who had been gathered were now quickly dispersing; something about the red woman seemed to have everyone on edge, eager to find their place along the walls. She thought about waiting a while longer for Jon, but decided against it; the people were waiting for her to join them in the crypts, and she had no idea if Jon was even coming.

The walk to the entrance of the crypts was long and cold; by the time she made it to the ironwood door, Sansa could hardly feel her nose or fingers. Waiting for her there was Maester Wolkan. “How many have already gone down?” She asked him.

“Almost everyone,” he said.

“And everything has gone smoothly?” Sansa asked, slightly worried. When Daenerys had crossed the Narrow Sea, she brought a small number of Dothraki women and children with her, as well as men too old to ride (the Unsullied didn’t seem to have any family or loved ones, and all were ready and more than willing to fight). The Northman and Dothraki had gotten in a few scuffles over Daenerys’ queenship, and locking them underground together made Sansa nervous.

“Everyone has gotten along,” the maester answered, seeming to understand Sansa’s concerns.

Together, the two waited by the entrance as people slowly made their way underground. The cold seemed to grow even harsher as they waited, and Sansa wrapped her furs even tighter. Watching her people walk through the ironwood door gave her a feeling of pride, that she had helped plan for thousands and thousands of people to be safe during the battle against the dead; but she also felt an uneasiness in her stomach, as if she were watching something deeply wrong.

The crypts of Winterfell had always been a Stark place. The castle itself had always been open to everyone, and Winter Town had been built for the people of the North to gather in harsh winters; but the crypts were not open to anyone except the Starks. The Kings of Winter sat their stone tombs, the Lords of Winterfell stood guard, and the bones of Sansa’s father and brother were there, statues staring down with Eddard and Rickon’s eyes. And below the tombs, sprawling under the entire castle and going deeper and deeper into the ground, the crypts spread like a maze, bigger even than the castle under which they stood; only Brandon the Builder knew all their secrets. The entrance was unassuming; in the years Roose and Ramsay Bolton had held Winterfell, they had never found it. Only someone who had grown up in the castle, lived in its walls and understood what it meant, would know where to look. Over the years, the Starks had trusted only a handful of people to see the crypts; her father had shown King Robert Baratheon to Lyanna’s grave, and Bran had hidden there with Rickon and Osha and Hodor after Theon took the castle. When she had been brought to Winterfell to marry Ramsay, Littlefinger had forced her to show him the crypts, but it had never sat right with her. And now thousands of people were going down there, passed the Starks who had ruled the North since they had come and fought with the Children of the Forest and the Giants.

As the last few people trickled by, Sansa took a long look at the castle around her. From where she was standing, she could see the Broken Tower and First Keep, where Jaime Lannister had pushed Bran all those years ago. And just out of sight, Sansa knew the Godswood and Glass Gardens were a wall away; the trees would be swaying harshly with the wind, and the glass would shimmer with fallen snow. She took a deep breath and tried to remember everything exactly how it looked. Winterfell had never left her memory; even when she was pretending to be Alayne in the Eyrie, the castle had come to her so clearly. But when she had first left for King’s Landing, seven years before, she hadn’t known it would be the last time before it was sacked. It was slightly different now – her and Jon had spent more than a year to rebuild the damage Roose and Ramsay did – but it was still her home. And now, about to seal the door to the crypts, Sansa was painfully aware that she may never see the castle again; they could all be dead by morning. And even if they lived, Winterfell would be burned and nearly destroyed if the Night King came with Viserion.

Then she stepped into the crypts and shut the door. Lighting a candle, she made her way to the three statues that made her heart sink: her aunt Lyanna who died before Sansa was born, her father Lord Eddard, and her brother Rickon. Looking into the stone face of her father, not for the first time did she pick apart all of the flaws; the chin and nose were not quite right, and her father’s face was too warm and soft to ever look right on a statue. But the eyes were almost perfect; looking in to them made her feel as if he was still there with her. Staring at him now, her guilt over letting everyone into the crypts disappeared. Her father had always loved his people, and said a Lord should be like a father to them. He would have done anything to keep the people of the North safe. If the crypts were a Stark place, they should be open to the Stark’s people.

Later in the night, she knew she would have to move through the crypts and keep everyone’s spirits high, but for a moment she sat at her father’s feet and cried softly, first making sure no one was there to see. Most times, she could distract herself with all of the responsibilities that came with being Lady of Winterfell; but sometimes it all felt so exhausting. She had been playing this awful game since Ser Illyn had killed her father. _Does it ever stop?_ She thought mournfully. After they had retaken Winterfell, Sansa had hoped that it had. But then they had started preparing for the army of the dead; and now Daenerys Targaryen was here. Even if everyone survived against the White Walkers, Sansa didn’t know what to do about the Dragon Queen. She would be out on the field, fighting the dead with her dragon; but so would all the men of the north, who had also left their homes and castles to be destroyed by the Night King. Couldn’t every other kingdom be enough for Daenerys? Couldn’t she just leave the North alone?

Sansa felt the familiar sensation of her heart quickening and her chest tightening. Sometimes when she thought about everything that had happened, of Ramsay especially, it was as if her body couldn’t handle the memories. Her heart would race and her throat would tighten; sometimes she even threw up.

Trying to distract herself before she lost control, she searched for anything in her thoughts that would make her feel better. Her mind settled on a familiar sight; Jon Snow. Something about him was always comforting to Sansa. The soft black curls of his hair, the three scars across his eye where a bird had clawed at his face, the warmth of his smile; and even when he wasn’t smiling, when his eyes were determined and his mouth playing at a frown, he made Sansa feel safe. Most people mistook his dower look for brooding, but she knew it just meant he was lost in his thoughts. He was always measured, taking his time to make the best choice for the most people; only when his family was in danger would Jon take a risk.

 _Please don’t let him die_ , she thought, a prayer to the Old Gods and the New, to her father in his tomb, to anyone who was listening. _Please don’t let him die_.


	22. JON V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon confronts Daenerys

His anger felt like fire racing through his heart, as if his very blood had caught with rage.

His first instinct was queasiness; as Sam stumbled through the story, Jon had felt his stomach jump into his chest, and he almost retched. He had heard the news in his solar, one of the few places in Winterfell that was quiet and private – the rest of the castle had gone to an almost frenzy. But Jon’s chambers were always undisturbed; he had given the King’s quarters to Daenerys, as well as his crown, but his people still gave him the respect of a king. That’s why Jon had led Sam there when he realized something was wrong; at first, he had thought that Sam was saving him from a very uncomfortable encounter with Daenerys, since he was one of the few people who knew Jon’s secret. But then Jon had seen the look on Sam’s face, and worry set in. Could something be wrong with Gilly? Or little Sam? Jon had talked with Sam just the day before, and seen him briefly that morning; what could have gone so wrong so quickly?

“What is it?” He had asked as soon as the door closed behind them.

“It’s my brother,” Sam’s voice broke. “He’s . . .” And then the anger that had been written across his faced disappeared, overwhelmed by his sobs.

Jon rushed over to comfort his brother, guiding him towards a seat by the fireplace. After a few minutes letting Sam cry, Jon finally asked, “What happened?”

“Daenerys. She murdered him.” His voice was still weak from crying.

“Why?” Jon didn’t understand.

“After the battle on the Goldroad, my father refused to bend the knee. Poor Dickon stood with Randyll, and she killed them.”

Jon’s heart sunk. He knew Daenerys had been unwilling to share in what had happened on the Goldroad with him, even though he asked many times. Rumors spread by Cersei’s men said that Daenerys had burned men alive with her dragon, but he didn’t want to believe them. Cersei had lied about Daenerys since the moment she set sail for Westeros, and before that had lied about Ned and Robb.

Jon didn’t know if Sam knew how Dany had killed his family; instead of telling him the awful truth he just said, “I’m so sorry.”

“Do you remember why I joined the Night’s Watch?” Sam asked, his head hung and eyes facing down.

“Aye.” It was not the kind of story easily forgotten. Jon had known fathers could be terrible, and he knew how cruel people could be, growing up a bastard. But Sam’s story had shocked him; the way Randyll Tarly had thrown his own son away, a worthless obstacle standing in the way of his House and legacy, was enough to make Jon feel sick. And hearing the story had been the first time he saw Sam as anything more than a coward who needed protecting.

“I was so afraid of everything all the time,” Sam paused, “but I was afraid of him the most. Even at the Wall, I would have nightmares of that day in the woods when he said he would kill me. And then, after I saw him again with Gilly and Sam, I realized that I wasn’t just afraid anymore; I hated him. More than I’d ever hated anyone. The way he treated my family . . . I think he deserved to die. But Dickon was just a boy, Jon, he wasn’t even a man grown.” Sam’s eyes began to well with tears again.

“I know, Sam. I’m so sorry.” _How did I let this happen?_ Jon’s head was starting to pound.

“This wasn’t your fault,” Sam said quickly, seeing the guilt on Jon’s face.

“But it was. I let her . . . I bent the knee and made her Queen of the North, swore to help her be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I did this.”

“No, you didn’t, Jon. You didn’t.”

Jon clenched his hand reflexively. “I don’t know what to do Sam. Everything I’ve done, trying to protect my family and the North, it just makes it worse. And now how am I supposed to get justice for your family? I’ve already bent the knee, and Daenerys still has two dragons. What am I supposed to do?” Jon’s whole body felt like it was strung together by a single thread, dangerously close to unraveling.

“I don’t know,” Sam seemed broken, grief and anger leaving him too tired to find answers. “But Jon, I don’t want you to say anything to Daenerys about this. If you were hurt . . . If . . . If something I did led to you being . . .” He couldn’t finish the thought.

“I can’t just let her get away with it,” Jon didn’t know what he could do, but he knew it had to be something. “I know you would give your life for me or my family, Sam. You’re my family.”

“Just please, I don’t want to lose another brother.” Another sob overtook Sam’s words.

For what could have been minutes or hours, Jon just let his friend grieve, sitting next to him for comfort. Eventually Sam stopped crying, and seemed to regain some sort of composure, wiping his face and rubbing his red eyes.

“Are you going to be in the crypts?” Jon asked.

“No! I should be with you and Ed, fighting.”

“You should be with your family, grieving.” Not everyone had a son or wife waiting for them, and Jon saw no use in saving the North if it meant leaving babes with no father. And any dead men would be raised as wights by the Night King; only the best fighters should be on the field or on the walls.

“Are you sure?” Sam asked tentatively. Jon knew that Sam would always see himself as a coward, no matter how many times he had saved Gilly, Little Sam, or Jon’s life.

“You need to be with Gilly and Little Sam right now. Watch over the people with Sansa, and comfort those who need it.” _And let your family comfort you_.

“If I’m going to be on the field, I should leave Heartsbane with you. Find someone who needs a Valyrian steel sword more than I do.”

Jon’s thoughts immediately went to Bran. “Can you bring Heartsbane to the Godswood? Give it to Theon Greyjoy, so he can protect Bran. If you’re sure you want to give it to someone.”

“Of course. If you’re my brother, that means Bran is, too.”

“Thank you,” Jon said, standing up and giving Sam a hug.

Leaving the solar, Sam walked toward the Godswood and Jon set out to find Daenerys Targaryen. He knew she had gone to retrieve Drogon and Rhaegal and fly them right outside Winterfell’s walls, but that had been hours ago judging by how dark the sky had gotten. Outside on the battlements, Jon also noticed just how much the wind and cold had picked up. Within his chambers he hadn’t noticed, but now the cold was biting into his skin with teeth sharp as knives.

The weather only seemed to worsen his mood; As he wandered the castle, his fingers and cheeks freezing, his grief and exhaustion had given way to anger. And where was Daenerys anyway? He hadn’t seen her near the courtyard where men had gathered to ready themselves, and looking out from the walls he didn’t see her on the field with Drogon and Rhaegal.

Out of places to look, he made his way to the King’s chambers, which had become Daenerys’. It seemed odd to him that she would be there, away from her people before they were to face their deaths, but he couldn’t think of anywhere else she would be.

Outside her door, he could see the soft glow of a fire through the cracks, and heard muffled sounds of a person shuffling inside.

“Dany?” He called, tapping twice against the wood.

“Jon? Come in.” Her voice sounded small, almost timid. Normally it rang out, demanding attention; only once had he ever heard her sound unsure, after Viserion had fallen beyond the wall.

“I need to speak with you,” Jon said, trying to measure his voice.

“You spoke with Samwell earlier?” She asked, eyes downcast.

“How could you do it?” The calm was gone from his voice. Something about the way she had asked the question – scared, like she knew what he was going to say – had exhausted any control he had left. _A part of you knows what you did was wrong. You’re ashamed_ , he thought, but let it go unsaid.

“Randyll Tarly and his son refused to bend the knee. I had no choice.” Her eyes were still focused on her feet.

“Is that all that matters to you? That he bend the knee?” _Was he not a person to you? Was his son’s life meaningless outside of what he could give to your own?_ “You said you came here to _help_ people.”

“How can I help them if I am not Queen? If men like Randyll Tarly refuse my new world?”

“Stop it!” Jon’s voice sounded rough against his own ears; the loudness of his words harsh and surprising to him. He took a seat by the fire and rested his head in his hands, trying to gather his thoughts. “How much time did you give him to choose? One minute? Three? Less? You had just killed thousands of his men, burned alive right before his eyes. How could you ask him to make that choice? And his son, too? Dickon Tarly was not yet a man grown, and you let him die beside his father?”

“You speak as if you’ve never done the same,” Daenerys said, her voice surer than before. Looking up into her eyes for the first time, Jon realized she was angry now, too.

“I never would have done it.”

“You’ve never executed a man who refused to follow your command? Not when you were Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch or King in the North? Never?”

Suddenly a familiar image flashed before Jon’s eyes; Olly, swinging from the rope, face purple and eyes glassy. He had to fight the urge not to throw up. “I’ve killed men, yes. But never for refusing to bend their knee.” _Olly murdered me. Tried to murder me and my friends twice more after. I begged, pleaded with him. He swore to be my brother, and then he killed me. And still I gave him a chance, a choice_. “I just don’t understand how you could have done it.” Jon hung his head.

“Don’t say that to me. You think Cersei Lannister has never killed men who refused to obey her? Or Euron Greyjoy? You think our enemies have never done worse?”

“Your only explanation is that Cersei Lannister has done worse?” Jon was incredulous. “You’re supposed to be different. You promised people you would be different.”

“I promised _my_ people I would be different. And I am.” Daenerys voice was taut, like a wire ready to snap. “Randyll and Dickon Tarly made the choice not to follow me.”

Jon’s anger pulled him from his seat, and he stood to meet Daenerys’ eyes with his own. “And you’re going to kill everyone who chooses not to follow you?”

“Not everyone. But Westeros is mine. I am the heir to the Iron Throne. The _rightful_ heir. Aegon the Conqueror built the throne and my father sat it, promised it to my brother. And now Viserys is dead and the Seven Kingdoms are mine by birthright. And you want me to let men like Randyll Tarly stand in my way?”

“You think being the rightful heir gives you the right to kill anyone who denies you?”

“Anyone who denies me my Kingdoms can’t be allowed to live in them.”

For a moment, all Jon saw was red. “They’re not your Kingdoms! They’ve never been your kingdoms. Viserys was never the heir to the Iron Throne and neither are you. Rhaegar’s son is your father’s heir. The Seven Kingdoms are mine by blood right, not yours.” The words poured out of him, rushed out in loud yells that Jon instantly regretted. He had spent days agonizing over how to tell Daenerys, if he was going to tell her at all; now he had let anger make the decision for him. And he had told her the worst way possible, using his claim to discredit hers.

Daenerys stood still as a statue, frozen in time by his words. “ _What?_ ” She finally said, the anger in her voice replaced by confusion.

Jon hesitated to answer; the confidence he had found in his rage was gone, and now he couldn’t think of what to say. His tongue felt like dead weight in his mouth, and his jaw was clenched tight, refusing to open.

“What did you just say?” Daenerys pressed him.

“My father was Rhaegar Targaryen.” His throat felt dry and scratchy, as if fighting against his words. “He and Lyanna, they had a baby. Me. When my mother – Lyanna – died at the Tower of Joy, it was on her birthing bed. Rhaegar knew she was pregnant when he left for the Trident; before he left, he named me Aegon Targaryen. He married Lyanna, Dany,” Jon was trying to soften his words, undue some of the damage he had just done. “I’m the true Targaryen heir to the Iron Throne.”

“You’re Rhaegar’s son?” She asked, still in shock. “You’re my . . .”

“Nephew,” Jon answered, wincing. Thinking of what they had done still made him nauseous.

The two sat in silence for what felt an eternity. Then Daenerys’ face changed. “How do you know this?” Her question sounded like an accusation.

“My brother, Bran. He can warg into animals, see through their eyes. It’s hard to explain, and hard to believe, but he can use their memory to look into the past. And Sam, he found the High Septon’s diary at the Citadel; he wrote about Rhaegar and Lyanna’s marriage, and her pregnancy.”

“Samwell Tarly told you this? I’m supposed to believe his word, after he tried to turn you against me?”

Jon’s anger was returning. “He told me before he knew what happened to his father and brother. And he’s not a liar. Neither is Bran. They wouldn’t lie to me about this.”

“How long have you known?” Daenerys eyes bore into him. “If Samwell told you before today, how long have you known? How long have you been lying to me?”

Jon silently cursed himself. “Only three days,” he said.

“How am I supposed to believe you? How do I know you didn’t come to Dragonstone to deceive me, to steal my claim? If you’ve kept this from me three days, how do I know you haven’t kept it from me the whole time?”

“What are you accusing me of?” He was almost yelling again. “You think I want to be Rhaegar’s son? That I want to have a dead mother I never met? You think I wanted to learn that my father – Eddard – had been lying to me my whole life? That I wanted to learn my family isn’t actually mine, that my brothers and sisters aren’t mine anymore? You think I want to sit the bloody Iron Throne?”

Daenerys opened her lips to reply, but her words were drowned by the loud sound of horns. “Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuhooooooooooooooooo”.

Jon’s heart froze. _One blast_. But there was no brothers of the Night’s Watch left to return.

“Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhoooooooooooooooooooooo”.

_Two blasts_. But all of the wildlings were at Winterfell, except for those who had stayed to man the Wall with Tormund; and they had already arrived.

“Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhoooooooooooooooooooooooooo”.

_Three blasts. White Walkers_. Any other thoughts instantly fell from Jon’s mind. The Army of the Dead was at Winterfell. The Night King was at his home.

He turned and rushed out the door, not looking back to see if Daenerys followed.   
  



End file.
